


The Rose's Kiss

by Fluxx



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Deserves Better, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Missing Scene, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, Sleeping Beauty Elements, Song: Kiss From a Rose (Seal)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:21:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24939718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluxx/pseuds/Fluxx
Summary: While Geralt deals with King Foltest's striga, Jaskier visits the small nearby town of Dorian to visit an old childhood friend as he patiently awaits the witcher's return. However, Jaskier instead discovers an ancient, insidious curse that destroyed that friend's life... and, with Geralt's rejection of a proffered bloom, seals Jaskier's eventual fate.Featuring art in Ch 4 by the amazingMara!A special thank you to the following betas for assisting with this fic!ButchTheDoggoCatastropheCatIngardisTrack#Fluxx Ficsontumblror follow@SirenFluxx on twitterfor more fics!
Relationships: Chireadan & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Countess de Stael
Comments: 53
Kudos: 339
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

Wintertime.

Most people hated it, and understandably so - with the plummeting temperatures and unforgiving weather, the days were cruel and the resources thin. Jaskier, however, saw so much more: the soft beauty of the snow, the refreshing crisp of the air. Admittedly, his privileged life afforded him the luxury of focusing on these things rather than the puzzle of tomorrow’s meal. He therefore made a point of lacing the lovelier themes of winter into his songs, that he might help the common folk see and enjoy them even if only for a short while. There was just… _one_ problem with this year’s song…

Jaskier was, in a word, distracted.

Try as he might, he just couldn’t find the words. He tried to capture the chill of the air, but he felt far too warm. He tried to capture the gentle fall of white snow, but he saw only the sleek wrap of black leather. All the world was grey and bleak, but his eyes were wide with a pair of gleaming stars framed by silver strands atop a broad fortress of strength and security. The tune his fingers idly plucked while he walked twinkled around his head, and the fog of his breath hummed as it hit the late morning air. “La-di-daaa di-daa da-da di daa, da-di-daa… La-di—”

“JASKIER!”

The bellow startled him enough he nearly dropped his lute. It happened often enough, far more so than he’d ever admit to, that by now his reflexes were trained well enough to make a swift albeit fumbling recovery. He clutched his lute securely against him and blinked innocently over at the source of his current fluster: his travelling companion, Geralt, of course. “Y-Yes? _Ahem._ Yes, Geralt? Something I can help with?” His chest brightened. Oh, if there was something he could do to be of use to Geralt, wouldn’t that be the most wonderful thing? He knew, of course, that Geralt was plenty capable on his own, so opportunities to help were few and far between. That just meant he had to shine his very best with every chance he _did_ get! He braced himself, eager to hear what Geralt had to say.

Geralt, meanwhile, sighed, taking on that gentle, unguarded expression he _never_ wore for anyone else. His tone dropped to match, like a coaxing lullaby to Jaskier’s ears. “I’m serious, Jaskier,” he replied, and it was only then that Jaskier realized he’d missed something Geralt had said. Again. Geralt frowned, and in the furrow of his brow Jaskier saw the genuine concern underlying his words. That, if nothing else, made him _really_ pay attention - even if only because the thought of Geralt being worried about him had him over the moon. Unfortunately, what Geralt had to say wasn’t quite anything like he’d been hoping for. “Amusing as it’s been running into you again, you can’t join me on this adventure. Whatever’s awaiting me in Vizima was fearsome enough - or at least troublesome enough - to scare off a witcher.”

Already, Jaskier felt his mood deflating, knowing full well what the Witcher had yet to tell him. He made no attempt at hiding his pout - three years of companionship had done nothing to dampen his expressive range, much to Geralt’s dismay. “This isn’t some ploy to evade me again?” he whined, making sure Geralt saw the fullness of his somber eyes.

The amused half-smile he earned made it all worth it, sending a soft fluttering through his chest. “Fine. Just this once, I’ll make you a deal.” He looked ahead of them and gestured wide to the horizon. “You tell me where you’ll be waiting. _Promise_ me you’ll wait there, and in return I promise you I’ll come find you when I’m done - _before_ returning to fetch Roach.”

“Little me? Ahead of _Roach_?” Jaskier narrowed his eyes at him, slowly surveying him head-to-toe as if searching for some tell that Geralt was lying. “What if you never come?” he pressed suspiciously, though admittedly it was mostly just to extend the conversation. Geralt gave him the slip no less than twice each and every excursion, so he’d hardly be surprised if he did it again now.

“Then I’m probably dead,” Geralt replied so bluntly it wiped the playfulness from Jaskier’s face. It made Jaskier wonder if perhaps this particular contract really _was_ as dangerous as he claimed. “And if you eventually come to find that I’m not,” he continued, “then you have my full permission to sing all across the land about how heartless and cruel the ‘Butcher of Blaviken’ really is.”

Jaskier quieted. Geralt _hated_ that moniker. His use of it underscored the severity of the situation, inspiring Jaskier to nod rather than further exacerbate things. In this moment, there _was_ something he could do to help Geralt: stay safe, so Geralt wouldn’t be distracted with worry. “Right. Um. Let’s see…” He set his sights along the horizon, a flattened hand shielding his eyes from the climbing sun. Oxenfurt, he knew, laid north of them - much too far away for their current purposes, but it loaned him a fair degree of familiarity with the region. If memory served, there were a few notable townships in the area, with Vizima laying southwest along their current trajectory. That put White Bridge closest to them, with Dorian just a little further west of Vizima.

Dorian… Why did that sound familiar… ?

He snapped his fingers, suddenly perked up with inspiration. “Peld! Of course, how could I have forgotten?” He glanced up to find a mildly intrigued witcher staring back at him. “Old friend of mine from university.”

“University?” Geralt interrupted, unable to suppress a distantly amused scoff.

“ _Yes_ , Geralt,” Jaskier scowled. “University. Anyhow, I received a letter from him some years ago that he’d settled down in Dorian. Chasing after some farmer girl, I think…” He wove the matter aside. “Never received a wedding invitation, so I assume it didn’t go so well. Still, it’d be nice to drop in and see how he’s doing. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind the company!”

Plus, that meant he could stay by Geralt’s side all the way to Vizima, a fact that hardly escaped Geralt’s notice.

It was as good a place as any for the bard to linger. If that’s where Jaskier was willing to stay, then Geralt was willing to agree to it. “Fine,” he grunted, then turned back to the road ahead and continued leading their slow trek through the Temerian woods. “Then you continue on once we reach the fork to Vizima, and when I’m through with my business there I’ll come meet you in Dorian. Deal?”

Jaskier skipped along at Geralt’s side and merrily returned to his tune, suddenly looking forward to catching up with his old friend - which would include, of course, a very _thorough_ detailing of his travelling companion. “Deal!”

* * *

Heralded as he was by the song of his lute, no one greeted Jaskier as he strolled past the town’s entry gate. Unsurprising, given the weather. However, it made it quite difficult to locate his dear friend, and so he made his way to the local inn with the hope that someone there would be able (and willing) to point him in the right direction. If he was lucky, Peld might be there anyhow, reciting one of those delightfully evocative poems of his! Wouldn’t that be a treat for the townsfolk, if Jaskier slipped in and added a twinkling backdrop to Peld’s passionate locution? Yet, as he eased open the old, creaking door to the inn and poked his head past the threshold, he was disheartened to find neither flowery syllables nor bold intonations would catch his ears. Instead, only a handful of townsfolk were scattered across the array of run-down tables in near total silence, offering little more than irritated mumblings about the dismal world. Jaskier squinted through the dust-filtered light at each visage, but so far as he could tell none of them were his dear Peld.

“Oy, lark!” the innkeeper called to him.

Admittedly, Jaskier was a bit surprised to be called to so directly, even despite the mild acclaim he’d earned off tales of Geralt’s good works. So, he put aside the irksome nickname and instead turned a bright face to the grimy old woman cleaning a batch of iron mugs behind the service table. “Yes, Madame Innkeep?” he chirped, offering a humble bow of his head. “Some way I can be of service?”

“Aye,” she grunted before gruffly discarding her current mug to the table and moving on to the next. “Sings us a song, will ye? Warm our hearts, an’ I’ll fetch ye a drink ta warm ye ’ead.”

The odd mixture of yokel vernacular with illustrative metaphor intrigued him. _Must be Peld’s doing_ , he thought with a smile. Aloud, he replied, already turning to meet the faces shifting towards his direction, “’Twould be my pleasure!” He skillfully drew his lute up into position, took a moment to consider his selection, then set his fingertips dancing across the strings, voice lifting up for their ears a simple tune reminiscing for springtime’s blossoms and the long, warm days of summer.

_And although, My Dear_   
_The cold doth draw too near,_   
_Worry not for the white o’er the glen_   
_Love, recall that time,_   
_When the colors doth shine_   
_And know all will a-blossom again_

The song came and went with little ado. It wasn’t exactly an extravagant, over-the-top performance, so Jaskier was content to simply accept the small, appreciative nods and the innkeeper’s ale rather than finding himself the target of airborne refuse. Shifting his lute around to hang at his back, he settled upon a stool near the innkeeper and raised his mug towards her. “To your good health, my good woman!”

She took up a drink of her own and returned the gesture in kind. “Gods bless ye, wand’ring lark.”

There it was again - that glimpse of another place, another time. With a smile on his face and eyes glinting with curiosity, he chuckled, “Dear ol’ Peld’s had an effect on the town?”

The old woman’s lips curled, but her eyes fell, as if drifting into nostalgia. “Figured you’d be a friend o’ his.”

“My travels brought me to the area,” Jaskier explained around conservative sips. The drink was watery and bitter, but offered a gentle soothe to his pipes and welcomed warmth to his cheeks. “Was hoping to drop in and see how he’s doing. Haven’t heard from him in years! Problem is, I’m not certain where in town he’s made his residence…?”

To his curiosity, the woman slowly placed her mug down upon the table and grew quiet, eyes transfixed by the abyss-like liquid. “No ’arm in it, I s’pose,” she murmured largely to herself. By the time she looked up again, a moisture had gathered in her eyes, but she nonetheless nodded. “Been… what, comin’ on four years now, aye?”

She looked at him expectantly. A pit formed in his stomach. Warily, he nodded, and she continued.

“Well, started maybe two afore that,” she sighed, pulling up a stool so she could sit across from him. She leaned in close, and he mimicked her, their conversation dropping to a low, whispered pitch. “Lovesick o’er a farmer girl, him. He told you about ’er? Well, when he came ta town, ’er fam’ly let him take up residence in an ol’ shack on the edge of their land, righ’ along the outskirts of town. Thing was, he took this ta mean she returned his affections. Tha fool! With a face like that, she had ’er pick o’ the local lords, no matter tha piss an’ grime muddyin’ ’er up. And he sang as much, too! So a course he knew it, but I guess he hoped he’d win ’er heart with his sonnets an’ the like. Hadn’t been here a day an’ he was already offerin’ ’er a rose.”

At that, Jaskier frowned. “A metaphor, I presume?”

The woman passed him a knowing albeit somber smirk. “So you know, then. Roses don’t grow ’round here. Musta traveled far an’ wide ta find it for ’er.” She wove it aside. “Started havin’ problems not long after. Kept gettin’ hurt, bleedin’ where’er he went. Stopped playin’ music, said it hurt his fingers. Next went his voice, it started soundin’ real scratchy, and he coughed up blood if he tried ta sing. Tha’ was righ’ about four years ago. No one’s heard from him since.”

By the end of her story, Jaskier was staring in horror. “Four years?” he cried out. “And no one’s looked for him? Tried to help him?”

“Don’ insult me townsfolk, lark,” she scowled. “A course we tried! But the herbalist couldn’ figure it, an’ our Lord won’ spare no coin ta hire a mage ta treat a peasant jus’ cos he sings nice.” A weary hand rose to her forehead, fingertips pressed to her temple as if to massage the guilt from her brow. “When he stopped comin’ out, we thought to go in, but… Well, somethin’s jus’ not righ’ about that place, lark. Nothin’ vile, not enough ta think any o’ us are in danger, but…” She looked up again, then offered a sympathetic half-smile, her hand dipping into her apron’s tattered pocket. “You go on and see for yeself.”

“Who, me?” Jaskier gawked, incredulous eyes falling to the heavy bronze key the old innkeeper pushed across the table. “Don’t you think this sort of thing would be better put to, say, a witcher?”

“Did ye not hear me, lark?” she grumbled. Her exasperation began to show, and Jaskier suspected his simple acquaintance with Peld wouldn’t endure much more of his second-guessing. “We’ve no money for a mage, an’ likewise none for a witcher! ’Sides, witcher’s are fer monsters, and this ain’t no monster holed up in that house.”

Warily, Jaskier reached out and took the key, turning it over in his hand. He had to admit - he _was_ quite curious. Apart from the concern for his friend, it was quite clear there was a story here to be told, a haunting tale of unrequited love, and perhaps a bit of something “other.” Jaskier simply _had_ to write about it, even if for no other reason than to honor his heartbroken, presumably departed friend. And besides, if anything _did_ go sideways, he had a perfectly capable witcher due to this very town in, hopefully, no more than a few short days’ time. Slipping the key into his pocket, he lifted his mug and his smile to the old woman before him. “Thank you for sharing this with me, Madame Innkeep. If it helps put folks’ minds at ease, I’d be happy to report back with my findings?”

She smiled, idly nodding, then stood up to slowly return to her cleaning. “Aye. Folk would appreciate it, I think.”

* * *

As the sun began its evening descent towards the horizon, Jaskier at last found his late friend’s peculiar residence. Just as the innkeeper had described, it laid on the outskirts of Dorian, a final human outpost before the vast expanse of empty field separating Dorian from Brokilon forest. A larger house sat closer to the town, flickering candlelight betraying the presence of the land’s shepherds. The surrounding farmland was of course dormant, left free of crops so the soil could recover before the next season. A cow pushed its nose through the thin layer of soft snow in search of what little defiant grass breached the ground, and the sounds of pigs rustled out from a small shed that had been fashioned for them beside a spread of cold-stiffened mud.

But even the crows scavenging scraps of feed dared not approach the dilapidated shack brooding in the far corner of the fields.

It was, to say the absolute least, rather odd. Jaskier could see with his own eyes that nothing appeared outwardly _wrong_ with the place, apart from its state of disarray. He heard no grunts or cries to betray some gruesome fiend, nor smelled noxious fumes or rotting flesh. He felt little more than a subtle chill running down his spine, one he couldn’t rightly attribute to the tiny flakes drifting through the air. So, in the absence of any other reason for caution, he drew in a steeling breath and stepped carefully past the surrounding fence.

Anticipation raced Jaskier’s heart as he moved closer and closer to Peld’s front door. A distinct aroma filled his nostrils, one he knew but couldn’t quite place. With that question lingering in his mind, he dug the key from his pocket and eased it into the lock. He was met with a soft, mild resistance, something that gave an airy crunch as he easily pushed through and turned the key. He shuddered at the sound. _Probably just rust_ , he told himself, though deep down he knew the feel of it hadn’t been right for that. What he’d felt was more… delicate. Organic.

He wet his lips, then reached up and rapped lightly upon the door. “Peld? It’s Jaskier - from university? Are you in there?”

Not but the dry hush of the wind met his ears.

Already coaching himself through expectations of the worst, Jaskier pressed his weight up against the door and eased it open, slowly inviting himself in from the bitter cold. “Peld?” he called out once more, though he knew he would again go unanswered. Inside, shadow hid everything from sight, chased away only in sparse splatters where the walls’ planks had begun to warp apart or the roof’s thatch had begun to loosen. Luckily, a small table still stood dutifully beside the door, sporting a half-melted candle upon a shallow dish. Setting the key beside the dish, Jaskier fumbled around in blind search of the console’s drawer, pulled it open, and was relieved to find a tinderbox, stone, and firesteel.

 _Shame I don’t have a witcher handy_ , he mused to himself as he pulled the items from the drawer. “It would have made lighting candles easier” was a far more admissible excuse than “it was dark and spooky and I missed my attack wolf.” But even without his silver-haired warrior, Jaskier managed to strike a small spark upon the flint, which he nursed with a few quick breaths into a small but healthy flame. As he touched the candle’s wick to the fire, a brighter, sturdier light rose up, banishing more of the surrounding dark. “There we go,” he murmured to himself, placing the candle back upon the dish. “Now, then. Let’s have a lo—AAH!”

Jaskier narrowly avoided dropping his candle as he turned and immediately jumped back from the scene its light revealed. Body pressed back against the door, fear sped his pulse and paralyzed his every limb. With the aid of his candle, details began creeping out from the darkness, forming a full, ominous picture as his eyes adjusted to the flickering light. For the most part, the house was plain and undisturbed, its sparse furnishings still tastefully placed and aligned in the same spots they’d been in for years. However, the light revealed what the turning of the key had disturbed: long tendrils of withered, decaying vines that wrapped around the furniture and climbed up the walls, twisting and curling around every object like hands desperately clutching to a lifeline. Dried, fallen leaves carpeted the floor, crunching unsettlingly with every step Jaskier dared take further into the home. The shadows pulled back, and with every recession more vines slid out into view, and Jaskier questioned the masochistic curiosity pulling him still further inward.

And then, just as he’d finally convinced himself he really shouldn’t be here, that it’d be better to swallow his pride and return when Geralt came to fetch him, a final sight fell under the flame’s fickle touch and stole the voice straight out of Jaskier’s terrified cry.

At first, it’d seemed like his eyes were playing tricks on him, seeing a figure amid the dense pattern of broken vines and crumpled leaves that wasn’t really there. But as the candle shifted, so did the shadows the figure threw back upon the bed, and Jaskier was forced to accept that he _did_ see the shape of a man before him, seated upon the edge of the bed with his face held in his hands.

But only the _shape_ of one.

Jaskier swallowed, his hand beginning to shake as he leaned forward to try and get a better look while maintaining the distance between them. The vines and leaves had grown in an eerie, most unnatural fashion, twisting and weaving upon themselves to build out the undeniable form of two legs, a curled torso, two arms, and a head. Even stranger, a pair of slacks still draped the legs, though they were admittedly too riddled with rips and tears to be acceptable among polite company. With a quick glance, Jaskier located the accompanying undershirt and doublet at the figure’s feet, equally scathed. Beside them, the candlelight glinted off the final detail that made the figure’s former identity wholly undeniable: a small, golden harp.

“Oh, Peld,” Jaskier lamented, a hand touching his hushed lips as he felt his heart break. His eyes scaled steadily back up the figure, hovering around every intricate detail in hopeless doubt. His mind couldn’t fathom what he was seeing, much less understand how it could have come upon so gentle and kind a creature as his long-ago friend. “How could this happen?” he murmured, at last turning away from the disturbing form to survey the rest of the room. He suspected he’d find some clue or other if he searched the house, but… He looked back at the figure’s head and shuddered.

_Not in the dark._

His mind decided, he picked his way back to the door, fighting against himself to keep from running. “I’ll be back for you, my friend,” he called over his shoulder, as though trying to convince a malevolent spirit not to take its vengeance out on him. In no time at all, he found the console table, and then a moment later his hand groped the doorknob. “I promise!” he cried out, and in a snap yanked the door open, blew out the candle, dropped it back on the table and fled back through to the outdoors.

“AAH!” he exclaimed, suddenly face-to-face with a plain, staring face sprinkled with dirt.

The woman hardly seemed to notice his distress, her brow furrowed as she nodded to the door he’d just shut behind him. “Shouldn’t you’ve left it lit?” she challenged. “The candle, I mean.”

He cringed, realizing by her words he must be the _only_ person to have braved a search of Peld’s home. “Yeah, erm, not in _this_ home. Trust me.”

She did just that with little more than a conceding nod and mild shrug - more evidence she preferred to know as little as possible about whatever lurked beyond that door. “You a friend o’ his? Peld?”

Jaskier nodded. “Yes. From university,” he explained, though he couldn’t bring himself to spill into his usual ramblings, still shaken from his findings. Luckily, the young woman’s company and conversation served as a grounding, giving him something to focus on and coax his pulse back down to a normal pace. “You. Um. Knew him, then?”

“Me family owns the land,” she replied, then quickly threw up her hands and shook her head at his resulting, inquiring look. “No, no - that’s me sister. She’s run off with her beau now, meanwhile I’ve taken over the farm with me husband.”

“Ah, I… I see,” Jaskier awkwardly replied. “So. Um.” He pointed over his shoulder to the house. “I’m guessing you uh… You’re curious about the house?”

She looked to the fields and threw a defeated gesture. “Me lads won’t go anywhere near these plots. Been that way ever since Peld disappeared. I’ve tried to be respectful, best I can, but there’s a lot o’ valuable land jos goin’ to waste, and the village’s needs grows every year seems like.” She gazed imploringly back at him. “I saw you enter the house. You weren’t afeared at all! I can’t offer you much coin, but I can house and feed you. Will you fix the place up for me, make it so me lads will work the land again?” She nodded her head respectfully towards the house. “Seems only right for a friend o’ his to handle the task. Respect for his belongin’s an’ all.”

Jaskier’s insides twisted. Sure, he’d promised Peld he’d be back, and he _did_ have every intention of doing so. But _cleaning_ the place was another thing entirely! He mentally reviewed the sheer expanse of the bizarre growths that had claimed the home - the thought of doing _anything_ to disturb them made him sick. But… he _did_ feel for the young woman and her family… And he felt it only proper that he complete some kind of final ritual to send Peld off for good. And it _was_ true it’d be far more appropriate for an old friend to rummage through his things than throw some stranger at it…

He offered her a sympathetic, albeit reluctant, half-smile. “Aye. I’ll clean the place up for you, Miss.”

The great relief in her sigh alone almost made it worth it. “Oh, thank you, sir! I’ll go tell my husband the good news and fix up your room. Come over whenever you’re ready!”

“Um, actually?” he quickly stopped her. “Sun’s nearly out. I was thinking I’d turn in, er, now? Would that be alright?”

“Oh. Of course!” she smiled. But, as he stepped towards her, she stopped him, pointing at the door. “It’s probably not necessary, but… did you lock it?”

His eyes widened in horror. “Oh!” he cried in alarm, whirling back towards the door. He’d already stuck his head back through the threshold and reached for the key before he realized what he was doing. Belatedly, he glanced to the far corner of the house, where he knew the humanoid clustering of dead vines lurked beyond sight. “Sorry to bother again!” he whispered. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning, if that’s alright… ?”

Of course there’d be no reply, but it made him feel better. Somehow. With a resigned sigh, he pulled back out, shut and locked the door, then finally turned back around to his host. “Right, then.” He offered her his arm and a polite bow. “Shall we?”

She smirked at him. “Now, bard, you behave yourself! You’ll not be causin’ any trouble with me family!” Her light chuckle brightened the settling night as her feet set off down the road towards the main house.

“I do have a name, you know,” he pouted, falling into step behind her.

“I thought you might,” she teased. “What is it?”

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, at your service!” he cheerily replied. “But to most, I am simply Jaskier.”

* * *

The humble home of one late Peld the Poet was, unsurprisingly, far more hospitable the following morn. After a pleasantly amicable evening with his host and her family, Jaskier was up and at it by sunrise, eager to take advantage of as many daylight hours as possible. This time, as he approached the door, he knew what to expect - anticipated the crunch of the withered vines against the door, braced himself for the eerie pseudo-presence of his friend, planned his first steps across the threshold such that not a single stalk would crush beneath his boot. Not that he belatedly saw much value in that, given he was to gather and dispose of the stuff anyhow. Perhaps, as extensions of Peld’s not-corpse, some part of Jaskier worried doing so would still hurt him? Or that he’d, at the very least, take offense to it?

As he stood there, just inside the foyer, Jaskier gazed upon the vine-form with distant nostalgia, and at last released a sorrowful sigh. “Oh, dear friend,” he murmured, shaking his head a moment before taking a careful survey of the home. “Found yourself a lovely home, by the looks of it. Way the innkeep tells it, you had the whole town charmed!” He hesitated, then turned apologetically back to Peld. “Well, apart from the one, anyhow. Such a shame, that!” Whether he’d hoped for a reply or not, none would come, leaving only the ambient trickling of early-morning birdsong to fill the silence. His lips turned a smile, and at last he set his lute by the door and laid his doublet upon the upright case. “Enough of that. I’ve a duty to perform! Your landlady’s none too pleased by your continued occupancy postmortem - particularly in absence of rent, I would imagine. No, no. No one _blames_ you, of course. Though, there is a fair share of wonderment about your…”

He trailed off, his mind approaching a ledge it wasn’t certain it was ready to jump off. A world of dangerous mystery stretched out before him, separating him from the vibrant young boy he’d matured into adolescence alongside. There lurked an incongruous bleakness in the corners of the homestead, whispering of things that simply didn’t fit against his recollections, not the least of which was the crux of this whole thing: why on this whole, good earth would Peld rather confine himself in his heartbreak rather than, as they had both done too many times before, drift on towards a new conquest? Was death truly the kinder fate, compared to facing a particular person’s pointed rejection?

A face of piercing gold wrapped in ghastly white drifted behind his eyelids, and he shot a sharp scowl at Peld. “Oh, now, don’t you get me started on _him_ ! That whole situation’s _completely_ different!”

Suddenly eager for a distraction, Jaskier rolled up his sleeves, grabbed an old broom abandoned in a nearby corner, and set about coaxing the withered vines from their crawl up the walls. It was fairly easy work, what with the plant being long-dead and crumpling beneath his sweeping with little protest. Unfortunately, that left him rather mentally unengaged, and his tongue couldn’t help but expend the excess energy to its own, haphazard devices.

“Don’t get me wrong. Were there _any_ indication anything could come of it, I certainly wouldn’t turn down the offer! But he’s a _witcher_ , Peld. He’s got plenty of reputation problems on his own without being involved with a male minstrel. I know, I know, that should hardly be of any consequence. You’d be shocked - _shocked_ , I tell you! - at just how insufferably nosy and quick to condemn the less educated can be. Looking for anything to blame for the world’s horrors, I suppose…” He took a moment to wave the matter off, then leaned the broom against a wall so he could gather the dismantled vines into his arms and haul them out the front door. “In any case, that reputation’s the whole reason I’ve been following him around these past few years. Saint that I am, I’ve committed myself to telling the world of his many valiant adventures, so that all may know of his good heart and strong arms and—”

Belatedly realizing what he’d taken to saying, he looked up from his cleaning and quickly glanced about, as if worried someone might overhear - but, of course, there was only Peld, and soon thereafter he let out his breath. Much to his chagrin, the sound came out more like a swoon than a sigh… “Oh, what’s it matter?” he declared, discarding his embarrassment with a roll of his eyes. “Not like _you’re_ going to tell on me, are you?” he asked, narrowing his brow at the plant-form.

It sat in silence upon the bed, head still held in its hands, a stray breeze drifting through the curtains and shuffling dusty leaves that had gathered upon the surrounding mattress and floor.

“Good,” Jaskier chuckled, then turned back to his cleaning, a fondness twinkling about his eyes. “Because, Peld, let me tell you… He does indeed have _strong_ arms! Could fit my whole head in the silhouette of each bicep - I swear it! And, when he lifts his sword… The way they bulk and ripple and twist? It’s a wonder he hasn’t torn that poor armor of his asunder from mere flexing alone! Though, I suppose it’s possible it’s been specially made with such things in mind… Certainly, his pants were made with his physique in mind! Ooh!” He took a moment to bite his knuckle, and his brow wrinkled as if to ask pity from his silent companion. “I should really ask him who his tailor is, though I’m sure not even that could make my own look _half_ as firm and… and… _developed_ … as his.”

As the day drew on, Jaskier slowly but surely worked his way all across the abandoned home, clearing the vines out from every nook and cranny and straightening the furniture and sparse possessions they’d dismantled along their sprawling crawl. All the while, he continued regaling Peld with stories of his more recent adventures - with particular focus on the man at the center of them all. He spoke with a rare abandon he’d never felt comfortable embracing in the witcher’s presence, for the first time exposing aloud the raw pining he’d until now kept close to his heart. Everything was fair game for full disclosure: the cool, calm, reserved manner; the swiftness and grace with which vile creatures were banished from this world; the way elixirs soaked gleaming gold in an abyss-like black that spilled out into the surrounding veins, presenting something as darkly alluring as it was altogether terrifying. By the time the sun reached its zenith, Jaskier had even begun to delve into tightly-held secrets: how he’d _perhaps_ acted a bit more hurt than he really was, just to be held or carried or coddled; how there _may_ have been the occasional unnecessary detour or distraction just to delay arrival to the next city; how when, just yesterday, when that deep timbre had formed the sound of his name with such intense worry, his heart had soared in a way he hadn’t yet thought possible. Again, he could feel that fluttering in his chest, feeding a longing so urgent it ached throughout his body.

“Alright, fine,” he at last sighed, turning around to fall back against a freshly-cleaned wall in defeat, head tilted back and arms hugging himself in a pale imitation of the comfort they could not provide. “So maybe it’s not _completely_ different. But, you did at least have _a chance_ at the whole ‘eternally committed’ thing. Even discounting public opinion - which, I’m certain he’d be more than happy to burn asunder - he could have his pick of mates across the continent. Quite literally has, I’m sure, though I suppose I have an edge in that I’d be free. Beside them - _all_ of them - I’m…”

As his voice trailed, his eyes drifted back down to at last settle upon Peld. Outside, the sun greeted the horizon, casting long shadows across the land and through the house. Jaskier had drawn the curtains, allowing a thin slice of light to fall across the room and frame Peld and his harp in a soft glow. If not for that, Jaskier might have thought the small splash of color peering through Peld’s vines to have been some sort of trick of shadows. Curiosity wrinkled his brow. Cautiously, he stood up from the wall and chanced an approach. “Peld, my dear friend…” he murmured, “are you… You can’t possibly be… ?”

Up close, the essence of bright, fresh satin wafted about his nose, confirming the sight of his eyes: a single, vibrant rose, its petals spread in full bloom beneath the waning light. Awe fell from his lips in a gentle gasp, and as if entranced by the blossom’s elegant beauty his hand lifted, that its fingertips might seek out the rare treasure even as he marvelled aloud, “Could it be you’re still alive…?”

When that cool softness slid against his fingers, a small smile turned his lips. But then, as he turned his hand to take the rose into his palm, a sharp pain struck his wrist. “Ow!” he uttered, wincing back, and the very moment he did the decaying vines all at once collapsed. “Peld!” he cried in alarm, but the hands that thought to hold his departed friend upright caught only dust - by the time they hit the floor, that was all that remained of the vines, leaving behind not a single trace of the eerie form they’d held but a moment prior.

Except for the rose.

Jaskier fell to his knees upon the floor, able to do naught but stare at the flower resting in his upturned palm and the small bubble of blood that had begun to rise upon his wrist. An odd warmth tingled through him, a kind of restlessness that made him reflexively begin fidgeting with the hem of his tunic while he beheld the blossom. He could not help but taste melancholy upon the air, but try as he might could not see anything but an innocent bloom. Surely, he was imagining things? A side-effect of Peld’s sudden collapse, perhaps? Or simply the fade of the day? He shook his head, then finally wiped away the blood with the cuff of his sleeve.

“I won’t pretend to understand,” he sighed, gaze drifting to the subtle dip in the mattress where Peld once sat. A thought occurred to him, and alongside it the strange thrumming swelled. “Ah! I’ll give this to Geralt,” he declared. “It seems obviously far too late to save you, but he may have some answers about your death, at least.” He glanced back down at the rose, then smiled, his cheeks flushing with a giddiness he’d dare not admit to. _I hope he likes it… !_

Rising back to his feet, he looked around the small cottage, then gave a satisfied nod. “Looks a whole new place, my friend,” he celebrated, turning about. “I suppose a stablehand of some sort may soon take residence. Do be kind to them, will you?” He looked back down at the harp still laying against the bed. It was a nice instrument, to be sure, but not so much so that one would fetch a good bit of coin for it, and he felt certain the average person would hardly know how to properly tune its strings - much less _pluck_ them. And so, he ultimately took it upon himself to kneel and take up the simple object for himself. “Something to remember you by,” he chuckled, fondly reminiscing over their time together at university. “A little memorial at Oxenfurt?” He quietly nodded to himself, then at long last strode back to the door, the harp in one hand and the flower in the other.

“Good bye, my friend,” he replied as he slipped on his doublet and looped his lute around his torso. He did a quick check to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything - which, of course he wasn’t, as he hadn’t brought much of anything to forget to begin with. Harp tucked under his arm and hand upon the door, he treated himself to one final gaze upon his friend’s long-ago abode, and a final wonder at his final days there… then stepped out into the settling night, acutely aware he’d likely never be back.

Well, unless Geralt showed interest in the flower. Oh, how he hoped he would! After so long away, it’d be nice to spend some time together in the town before setting back out upon the road… He drew in a deep breath of the crisp night air, and with its reinvigoration felt his heart sing. He lifted his bloom before him, chuckled, then could not help but pick up the song he’d been composing these past few days, his head swimming with thoughts of his witcher.

“Oh, Geralt… It seems I’ve been kissed by a rose…”

* * *

That night, Jaskier barely slept. At least, he didn’t _think_ he did. He early on lost all sense of wakefulness to the lucidity of the scenes blooming one after the other behind shut eyelids. A pure, blissful energy lit every inch of his body, his every nerve singing with vivid color and sumptuous taste. Perhaps his time reminiscing over his days at the academy had left him feeling youthful and spry. Perhaps he simply missed his travelling companion, and yearned for his promised return. Whatever the cause, every single dream circled around a singular entity, and in that way writers wove lies to tell the world’s deepest truths so too did these visions draw his secrets to the tip of his tongue. Every slight brush of fingertips, every furtive glancing of the eyes, every urgent whisper and suffocating embrace wrought a terrible ache upon every inch of his body, leaving him panting the name he would never have dared to speak aloud.

“Geralt… Geralt… Geralt…”

When finally the morning sun fell across his eyes, he sat up and clutched his shirt, struggling to ease his labored breathing. Cold sweat drenched his tunic, and he regarded it with a curse through clenched teeth. “I’m a right mess,” he muttered, and though he was content to leave it at that an echo slipped across his mind. _Geralt would be disgusted._

He shook it off, dismissing it as little more than the final fading grips of sleep. “Best get cleaned up. Who knows what the day will bring? Geralt, hopefully.” He hesitated, then again shook his head, but dared not part his lips again as he discarded his shirt and stepped towards the provided wash basin. _Lots of dirt from cleaning Peld’s house_ , he told himself as he bathed. _Perhaps I’ll go perform at the inn. Can’t do that covered in filth, now can I?_ But as his hands passed over his legs, he found himself suddenly wishing they were someone else’s hands, and that the song humming through his lips were greeting someone else’s ears.

Abruptly, he stood, the water splashing against the tub’s splintering planks. “This is ridiculous!” he declared, snatching his towel from where it hung upon the folding vanity screen. As he wrapped it about his waist, his eyes fell upon the rose resting upon the bedside table, and his brow furrowed. “Stop it, Peld. I’ll not be dragged to the depths of despair by some silly crush, do you hear me?” But even as he spoke, he winced - whatever the cause, after the night he’d had he could no longer deny the truth that had been rendered before him over and over and over:

He was, quite simply, most terribly, helplessly in love.

 _Not that it matters_ , he thought, carefully stepping out of the basin to set about dressing himself. _He’s a witcher, after all. He hasn’t the time for such silly, fleeting things as love - and what kind of friend would I be to ask him for it? Not a very considerate one, I’ll say that much!_

The rest of his morning carried on in much the same way, slipping back and forth between his subconscious fantasizing and his fervent denying. Somehow, he managed himself well enough through breakfast and into his idle explorations of the little town without drawing too much intrigue from his host and her family. Still, try as he might he could not keep his thoughts in line for very long before they gradually wandered their way back to Geralt and Peld’s rose. Just thinking about offering Geralt the blossom drove him mad, and by the time the sun had crested its peak and began crawling back towards the horizon the only thing he’d found could distract himself from it was to return to the song he’d been composing. At least that way, singing to the rustling leaves and lifting his lute’s notes to the sun, he could focus all this pent-up energy on something, and for the sake of saving face pretend it was someone, _anyone_ else who inspired his words.

“Find yourself a girlfriend?”

Jaskier leaped up from his stone perch and whirled so rapidly he nearly dropped his lute. “Geralt!” he hoarsely choked, fumbling with his instrument in an awkward attempt to silence its strings. “You’re back! Wait…” A violent flush took over his face. “You… You were listening? How much did you hear?” Then, before he could stop himself, “Did you like it?”

“Better than most of the crap you croon,” Geralt snickered while Jaskier mentally beat himself for the slip. “Who’s it about? Someone you met?”

“N-No one in particular!” he quickly insisted, voice cracking halfway through. “Just. Ha ha. You know, the um. The public, they…” He swallowed, hoping it’d still his nerves, but of course it hardly helped. “They enjoy… love songs…” he finally, meekly finished. Suddenly eager for a change in subject, his eyes flitted over Geralt head-to-toe, subconsciously doubling-back to more closely examine particular details he’d dare not admit to. “So um. How’d it go? Well, I assume, given you’re. You know. Still standing.” Belatedly, his eyes caught the edge of cloth bandages peeking out along his collar, and a renewed sense of urgency gave rise to his voice. “Oh, no! Geralt! You’re hurt! What happened?!”

Geralt easily shifted astride Jaskier’s hand, reflexively catching his wrist and fixing him with a stern glare. “Shut up, Jaskier. It’s fine. The monster has been dealt with, and a friend tended to the aftermath.”

Jaskier scoffed. “A ‘friend,’ you say?”

The remark earned him, as such remarks often did, an aggravated roll of the eyes. Leaving the implication unanswered, Geralt turned and began making his way back towards the small town’s eastern gate. “Come on. We can make good headway by nightfall if we leave now.”

“What, already?” Jaskier hurried along after Geralt, awkwardly convincing his lute back into its case as he did. “But it’s already so late! Why don’t we just stay the night here?”

Geralt offered him only an irritable grunt in reply. Clearly, something was bothering the witcher, and for once Jaskier was reasonably confident it _wasn’t_ him. Mostly, it intrigued him, for he knew very little could actually get to Geralt - a point that honestly just made him prouder of his own particular penchant for such - but he knew whatever it was likely related to Geralt’s dour relationship with and opinions of the world’s politics and divine powers and other such witchery stuff. It was all sure to be a captivating conversation, to be sure, but one likely to earn him the blunt end of Geralt’s steel sword, so he let the matter be and instead took up other topics sure to be slightly less aggravating.

Slightly.

“Well, fine then, off we go I suppose,” he replied, working the strap of his lute’s case over his head and about his torso. “But aren’t you going to ask how I’ve been, at least? It was quite nice. Very peaceful. Met some lovely people! Although—” He abruptly cut off just as his friend’s name approached his tongue, finding himself second-guessing this particular topic. Subconsciously, his hand drifted to the satchel hanging at his side, fingertips touching the slight swell where, just underneath, Peld’s rose laid in wait.

“What is it?”

Geralt’s gruff reply startled him out of his pause, largely in part of the fact that the witcher had actually stopped and was looking at him with concern thoroughly shocked Jaskier. And it was such a _lovely_ way of looking, too - the slight gape of the lips, the subtle softening of the wrinkled brow, the taut hanging of the poised fingers deciding which weapon, sign, or implement might be needed to address the issue. The thought that he, little and insignificant Jaskier, could affect a great and powerful witcher in such a way… It electrified his very blood, and he fleeting worried Geralt’s heightened senses might have caught the skip in his heartbeat.

 _I’ve got his attention_ , an errant thought whispered between his ears, the soft satin of red petals painting his eyes. _Now’s my chance!_

“N-Nothing, nothing!” he quickly assured, hurrying closer while his hand slipped under his satchel’s flap to extract the rose. Already, Geralt’s expression had shifted, a distant confusion replacing his worry. Sensing the slip of his opportunity, Jaskier lifted his free hand as he continued, “But! Um! Well, I, ah.”

Geralt turned to face him, arms lifting to cross low before his chest. “What _is_ it, Jaskier? Out with it already!”

“Yes, right, of course!” Jaskier replied, thoroughly flustered, but at last his fingers glanced the razored leaves of the rose’s base and excitement lit his face. “Well, I found something that… Um…” In a rare state of affairs, Jaskier’s words failed him, so he simply extracted the blossom and held it out for Geralt to take. “Here. For you!”

A tense silence extended between them. The unreadable still that had fallen across Geralt’s expression exacerbated the anxiety raising each and every one of Jaskier’s hairs and churning his stomach. It seemed as though his whole world hung on whatever Geralt would finally say - and when at last those precious words came, his throat felt dry and choked, and he wondered how it was he could even still breathe.

“A rose?” came the witcher’s low mutter, one brow peaked.

“Erm… Y-Yes,” Jaskier managed. “But, see, it’s wintertime, and—”

“I haven’t the _time_ for this, Jaskier!”

Before Jaskier had the chance to stop him, before he’d really even registered just how irate Geralt had grown, the back of Geralt’s hand found the rose delicately perched upon Jaskier’s palm. Jaskier’s mouth fell ajar, his eyelids pulled wider, and in that fleeting instant something seemed to pierce his very core. A shockwave swept through the frenzied thrumming that had gripped his body, leaving in its wake a deathly silent still. His chest tightened, his eyes drifted to the fallen rose, and gradually his fingers curled back into his palms and withdrew.

To his credit, Geralt detected something was wrong, but for the life of him couldn’t fathom why Jaskier would possibly be so hung up on a silly flower. “I’m _tired_ , Jaskier,” he grumbled, sloppily attempting to rein the bard back in. “I want my horse. Do you know how long I’ve had to leave her with that miserable innkeep?”

Jaskier swallowed, but to his dismay failed to properly whet his throat. “Yes, of course,” he hoarsely croaked, then shook his head. Why was he so… _affected_ by this? It was just a flower. And anyway, he’d _known_ his chances with Geralt were slim-to-none. It was ridiculous, to say the very least, to expect anything other than exactly what had unfolded, especially given Geralt’s particularly grouchy mood. So why, then… ?

“We’d better be off!” he forced himself to chirp, shoving the whole ordeal to the side of his mind. He willed his feet into motion, silently praying putting distance between him and the abandoned blossom would additionally help distance himself from the discomfort wracking his chest. “It’s a long road back to… Erm, where was it you left her, again?”

So resumed the mystifying puzzle that was “Jaskier.” Geralt shook his head. “What about your flower?” he mused, heavy footsteps carrying him back to the lead. “All that trouble to find it, and you’re not going to keep it?”

Behind his back, Geralt couldn’t see Jaskier’s gloomy glare. _YOU were meant to keep it. That’s what a “gift” is, you know…_ But rather than berate him about it, Jaskier simply sighed and glanced back at the discarded offering. “No, I—”

He froze. Where once excitement had lit him, now seeped a deep and dark foreboding. There, upon the slow-caked road, laid the abandoned rose - dried, wrinkled, and black. He’d of course expected the rose would wilt eventually, but certainly not _that_ quickly? A distant part of him felt the truth of what he saw, knew in its own way what it meant - but he refused to acknowledge it, to _accept_ it. _I’m just spooked, that’s all._ He let the omen linger in his private recesses and turned back to Geralt. “It was a silly thing, really. Come! Regale me with your adventure, that I might put it to paper and spread word of your glorious triumph across all the continent!”

Yet even as he spoke, already did he begin to feel the tingling in his limbs, like the subtle shifting of a thousand needles.


	2. Chapter 2

The years dragged on with excruciating slowness after that. At first, hardly anything seemed to be different: Jaskier pulled himself through the rejection well enough, dropping it upon a pile of past rejections from Geralt and plenty others. But, no matter how much time meandered on, its painful gleam never seemed to fade, like a jewel that still managed to catch the sun through the depths of a lake. Every now and then, when the world grew too still or life too silent, the pain of that single, fleeting moment seared through the days since, drying his throat and scraping his veins and poisoning his ale, and he’d frantically grasp for his lute and force himself to play the song he never finished, mumbling absent-minded words beneath his breath like a crazed peasant. “Used to be… alone on the… became the light… side of…”

“You’re mumbling again.”

Jaskier jumped. Clutched his lute. It was dark, the light of their campfire barely a spark. Still, he hesitated to fully look towards the witcher laying behind him, fully aware of the moist streaks catching the cold air against his cheeks. “Sorry!” he hastily replied. “Just. Um.”

“Can’t sleep,” Geralt grumbled in return, rolling onto his side. “I know.”

With Geralt’s back facing him, Jaskier relaxed a bit, gently lowering his lute while his eyes took to longingly gazing at the way individual strands of Geralt’s ashen hair caught the flickering light. A thousand words teetered on the tip of his tongue - excuses, questions, professions. His voice failed to catch its wings, too distraught by his predicament to manage calling for help. What even would he ask for, anyway? _Geralt, please love me, even though you clearly don’t want to, because I’m incapable of getting over a silly rose. Please lie to me so I can set this torture aside and pretend like it’s all okay._

“Are you ever going to finish that damned song?”

“What?” Jaskier squeaked before he could stop himself. _Why do you have to sound so stupid?!_

Geralt sighed. “That song. You’ve been messing with it for… three years now?” Without warning, he glanced over his shoulder, then suddenly sat up with a furrowed brow. “Jaskier? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing!” he insisted, jumping to a stand - mostly to get his face away from the fire. Belatedly, he realized what Geralt was saying, and a precarious calm settled in. “You… took notice of my song…?”

A moment’s hesitation passed before Geralt turned around and grumpily flopped back down upon his bedroll. “Of course I have. You keep waking me up with it.”

Jaskier knew what would follow, but that alone never helped ease its unfolding. It started with an awful sense of deflating, as though he were being consumed from the inside and rendered somehow less than he’d been just before. At the same time, his innards suffered an intense twisting, like something between insurmountable anxiety and debilitating nausea. His drifting equilibrium would weaken his defenses, and then the itching would creep in, light and distant but present enough to make his whole body feel uncomfortable. It almost _always_ ended with him on the ground, if he weren’t already there - this time, he thanked the gods for the tree beside him, that he could catch himself with a quick hand and play the whole thing off as if he’d just lost his footing on an errant rock or loose bit of soil.

“Sorry,” he whispered, his voice so faint it could have easily been the sigh of the wind. “I’ll be quiet.”

Enough silence passed for Jaskier to hope that’d be the end of it. But, just as he returned to his seat upon the rock, struggling against the urge to scratch through his clothes, Geralt’s voice looped around his neck like a noose.

“Sing me a verse.”

Jaskier only barely caught himself from scoffing at his friend. “You _just_ told me to—”

“I’m already awake anyhow,” Geralt interrupted. He shifted to lay upon his back, hands folded under his head and bright eyes staring up at the stars cast across the sky. “May as well hear it proper.” Something belatedly occurred to him, and he quickly scowled at Jaskier. “Just _a bit_ of it.”

A shuddering disturbed the hollow in Jaskier’s chest. “Um. Alright, then,” he awkwardly conceded, adjusting himself upon the rock to face Geralt. His fingers trembled, more anxious for this performance than any they’d provided before. His lips tried their best to stall. “Any. Um. Particular part of it? Seeing as you’ve apparently already heard bits and pieces. Don’t suppose you have any. Um. Favored excerpts?”

To Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt seemed to actually consider the question, then let his eyes drift lazily back towards the sky. “I seem to recall something about ‘pleasure and pain’?” He smirked. “That sounds interesting. Sing that bit.”

The itching cooled. The twisting stilled. The tiniest glow dared to peer out from his heart. Perhaps… Perhaps, if he sang… if he did it well enough… Perhaps, that way, he could let Geralt know? At the very least, he could judge the witcher’s reaction to it, and see whether it sparked any sort of… _interest_ … in the older man. He half-smiled, no doubt looking crazed between his previous despair and current hope. “Very well!” he replied, hands falling into place about his lute. He cleared his throat, plucked a few light, testing notes, then took a breath, pulled back, and leaned into the first string of twinkling notes, setting his stage with the tune that would soon cradle his voice through Geralt’s waiting ears.

_There is so much a man can tell you, so much he can say_   
_You remain my power, my pleasure, my pain_   
_Baby, to me, you're like a growing addiction that I can't deny_   
_Won't you tell me, is that healthy, baby?_   
_But did you know that when it snows_   
_My eyes become large and the light that you shine can be seen?_

_Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey_   
_Ooh, the more I get of you, the stranger it feels, yeah_   
_Now that your rose is in bloom_   
_A light hits the gloom on the grey_

As his voice danced through the night, so too did his lute, the notes guiding his words along a twirling dance. His body swayed with his rhythm, and his eyes slid shut: his song, this small act of service, filled him with a regrettably fleeting high he knew he could only achieve in moments like this, moments where he and he alone held Geralt’s attention wholly captive. _He’s listening to me. He’s listening. To ME._ The longing poured into his song, and by the time he begrudgingly brought the short phrase around to a close his heart was racing again, his anxiety reaching a fever pitch. He urged his eyes open, warily studying what had become of Geralt.

The witcher laid before him so still Jaskier worried he’d drifted to sleep. He was still debating whether or not that was a good thing when Geralt’s eyes suddenly slid open and his chest swelled with a deep draw of air. The corners of Jaskier’s lips curled in a triumphant grin, soaking in Geralt’s peaceful aura and, in turn, unspoken approval of his performance. Some snide remark was sure to spill out of those thin, chapped lips, but nothing Geralt said could take this small victory from him.

Surely not.

“I imagine you’d have less food and more coin thrown at you if you performed more songs like that,” came Geralt’s eventual, low chuckle.

Jaskier smirked. _That’s it? You’ve grown soft, Witcher._ Aloud, he cheekily replied, “Nothing wrong with receiving a free meal! Besides, coins hurt. Hasn’t that caught on enough for you to know? Toss a coin to your Witcher, Oh—”

“Wait…” Geralt’s face shot in his direction, brow narrowed with suspicion. “When it snows… rose is in bloom…”

His heart leaped into his throat. _Oh, gods! Did he figure it out? Relax, Jaskier, relax - always a chance he’ll accept it! And, he liked the song, so maybe… ?_

His hopes faltered when Geralt’s expression shifted to a smirk, and he started looking something like a predator staring down cornered prey. Jaskier’s pulse raced. He took it as a small blessing Geralt didn’t keep him in suspense for long… until Geralt actually spoke, anyway.

“You cheeky fucker! You _did_ meet someone that day, didn’t you?”

Jaskier winced. He knew what Geralt was getting at, but he wished so desperately to be wrong that he insisted his ignorance. “What day? You’ll have to be a _bit_ more specific, Geralt. I may not have lived quite so many days as you, but—”

“In Dorian!” the witcher growled. “While I fought Foltest’s striga.” Sensing another denial between Jaskier’s parted lips, he quickly preempted, “Don’t deny it, Jaskier! It was obvious the moment I returned something had made you…” He hesitated, struggling with his words - there was a reason, after all, he’d let Jaskier be his “personal ambassador to the common folk,” as the bard called it. In the end, he just threw his hand at Jaskier and concluded, “…glowy.”

Jaskier’s heart sank - partly from his disappointment, and partly because he knew what agony would soon return to him. Already, the twisting nausea had returned, alongside a distant itching. It hindered his typically sharp wit, leaving his lips struggling to form a response. “Well, I… draw inspiration from _everywhere_ , Geralt! So… So, yes, of course Dorian’s… a _part_ of it… But, Geralt—”

“Are you nervous?” Geralt snickered, suddenly far more interested than Jaskier preferred, and of course in all the completely wrong ways. He sat himself up on his elbows for a better view during his continued interrogation. “Damn, Jaskier, you must _really_ like this woman if it’s gotten you this wound up. That why you’ve been reeled in lately?”

_Reeled in?_ Jaskier silently marvelled, but despite all impulse found he couldn’t deny it - now that he looked back upon the years since Dorian, he realized he couldn’t remember a _single_ sexual escapade. Instead, his memories were filled with only Geralt, the dreams so real they were distinguishable from reality only in that they involved the pair of them tumbling through flowerbeds, or him tying Geralt to a chair with vines, or Geralt delicately laying petal after light, satin petal upon every inch of his body, or any of a million other scenes across the full spectrum of passion and eroticism. It shocked him, to say the very least, to discover those private, secret moments had apparently gotten him through three full years, but on the bright side he at least now had something he could directly, truthfully reply. “To be perfectly honest, I hadn’t noticed.” Of course, that didn’t stop him from wanting out of the conversation altogether. “It’s hardly worth all this hubbub. Shouldn’t we focus on something more important? Our bearing, for example - what monstrosity awaits us in—?”

“Some monster or other,” Geralt abruptly dismissed, “or else some lord’s petty, selfish grievances, or a stubborn mage too proud to admit he’s fucked up. Same shit, different hole.” A devilish glint hit his eye. Jaskier squirmed, longing for that look to be _for_ him rather than _at_ him. “On the other hand, my notoriously promiscuous travelling companion suddenly taming his trouser snake over some long-ago peasant girl? _That’s_ something to talk about.”

The witcher wasn’t letting him wrestle free. “Fine!” he surrendered. “You’re right. It’s about… _someone_ …” His mind raced, scrounging for some way to sate Geralt’s curiosity without revealing the truth. On the other hand, perhaps this was the perfect way to test the waters? Warily, he eyed Geralt. “Might be a girl. Might _not_ be.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

Shock split across his face. “What do you mean, ‘obviously’?!” He probably deserved Geralt’s next look, pointedly indicating his entire person, to which he could only pout in defeat. “Okay, fine, it’s a _bit_ obvious.”

With an amused smirk, Geralt settled back into a more comfortable lay upon his bedroll, and Jaskier again had to fight against the way his senses gravitated towards the fire’s every pleasing highlight of Geralt’s chiseled face, strong arms, broad chest, lest he get distracted and let his guard down. “Don’t tell me _that’s_ why you’re avoiding it?”

Jaskier’s lips parted, but he caught himself at the last moment and changed his answer. “Not telling!”

“Suit yourself,” Geralt grumbled. Belatedly, a kinder thought occurred to him, and he offered with a sigh, “But, just for the record? I’m a ‘white-haired devil,’ remember? You’ll not get any grief from _me_ about it.”

Dare he read any deeper than simply that? Jaskier swallowed. “Acknowledged. And appreciated.” _Don’t let on too much._

Unfortunately, it seemed even that wouldn’t be the end of it. “So?” Geralt’s voice disturbed the night. “It must’ve gotten pretty involved if it’s dragged on _this_ long?”

This time, the twist hit so severely it felt like something inside him had split open. “No,” Jaskier managed around his reflexive wince. “No, it… They…” He fidgeted, trying to keep down the encroaching agony at least enough so Geralt wouldn’t notice. “I don’t think… they know…”

The laugh that pierced the night felt like a jab to his gut. “Jaskier! Are you serious?” He rolled his head over to regard the bard directly. “You’re honestly hanging yourself up on someone that never really even happened?”

_Oh, no,_ Jaskier fretted, feeling a familiar sensation consuming his throat. His pipes grew dry. The air grew thin. The taste in his mouth fell to bitterness. Still, he managed to hoarsely croak, “I know, Geralt. It’s foolish.”

Another sigh. “Nothing a meaningless fuck can’t fix.”

Jaskier cringed, eyes clenched tight. _Stop hoping! That’s not what he means, and you KNOW it!_ The itching burned across his chest.

“Take some of my coin,” Geralt chuckled, finally rolling over to reclaim his sleep. “Buy yourself a whore at the inn tomorrow. Least I can do to repay your work on my ‘public image.’” He nestled into his bedroll, ready to give in to weariness… but, when Jaskier failed to offer any retort to his offer, he frowned. “Jaskier?” he replied, turning his head to check on his friend.

To his surprise, Jaskier had turned his back to him, but before Geralt could pry any further the bard quickly threw out a stilling hand. “Th-Thank you, Geralt. Get… Get some sleep now.”

To call the display “suspicious” would be the understatement of the century, but Geralt let it be. “You as well,” he offered, returning to his burrow. He’d given the bard enough grief for one night. Perhaps it’d been too much? He shrugged it off, too weary to let it bother him too much. “Good night.”

Beyond Geralt’s sights, Jaskier held his hands before him, his lute abandoned to the ground. Wet droplets hit the edges of his palms and darkened his cuffs. His fingers trembled, tightened, crushed their hidden troves. A silent scream rang so loud through his head he couldn’t think - not from despair, but fear.

He tried to suppress another cough. Couldn’t. Felt flakes of silk pass his lips. Released his clutches, letting the cracked and torn petals he’d been holding fall to the ground like broken dreams.

_What’s happening to me?!_

* * *

Jaskier stared at the stone plate placed before him. It was a perfectly palatable meal: a spiced slab of venison beside a bed of fresh, roasted vegetables. A fine meal, especially compared to the other offerings one was like to find in rural towns such as this. But despite the delectable scents hitting his nose, Jaskier found he simply wasn’t hungry - or, rather, that he was too wound up and anxious to confidently get anything down.

_He’s fine. He’s FINE_ , he kept telling himself, pushing a blackened carrot around on his plate. Of course he was fine - a selkiemore was hardly anything to balk at, especially beside other atrocities the witcher had faced before. At this point, really the only danger Geralt ever faced came at the hand of arrogance lowering his guard or preoccupation distracting his judgement, and even then the witcher met it as more of a heightened challenge than any actual danger.

But Jaskier’s anxieties had long ago parted ways from any sense of logic or reality. No amount of screaming in the mirror or even drowning in ale dulled the sharp pain that returned to his muscle and bone every. Single. Time. Geralt left his side. Even playing his lute no longer brought him the peace it once did - no, Geralt had unwittingly snuffed out _that_ relief three years ago. Whatever curse had laid upon Jaskier, it’d grown painfully evident he was fighting a losing battle, even _if_ he’d managed to stave it off significantly longer than his poor friend.

No, for better or worse Peld hadn’t the benefit of being strung along, periodically sated by tiny moments where he could pretend the object of his desires actually _did_ love him, and nor either had he the opportunity to bury himself in distraction after sultry distraction he could imagine with any breed of hair, eyes, and flesh if he closed his eyes. After his first night employing Geralt’s coin towards such outlets, Jaskier found the suggestion had indeed helped, and so continued chasing those replacement highs whenever he could convince his way into them. Were the circumstances different, he’d probably be quite proud of just how successful he’d been in this regard.

Unfortunately, these years-long antics had brought him two problems.

First, although each encounter brought its relief, his lows had grown worse and worse with every passing day. Every morning, he woke up gagging and had to throw himself to one side to sputter out mouthfuls of silken, blood-red petals. His skin burned so hot, even in the winter, he’d started leaving as much of his tunic as he dared unbound and his doublets unfastened, playing off both as the badges of his current promiscuous character. He took extra care to trim his nails short and avoid any sort of physical confrontation, lest he accidentally split skin and need to excuse the soil-like ooze mingling amid his blood.

Second, his various courtships… weren’t _always_ summoned to his room by the power of coin. Especially given the frequency he required, that sort of thing got expensive quick. Luckily, being a studied wordsmith and musician gave him certain talents - talents he had absolutely _no_ qualms about using to charm and seduce any beauty that could ease his aching heart. With paid performances few and far between, and fiercely opposed to again dipping into Geralt’s purse, Jaskier employed this avenue more often that he liked to admit, which had come to result in a rather inconvenient piling of his conquests’ disgruntled associates.

On the bright side, it gave him something to obsess over in a frantic attempt to quiet his worrying. Instead of Geralt’s absence, Jaskier focused on the steadily growing line of folk looking to free him of his baster. While he personally knew there were _plenty_ of other ways to enjoy his paramours, he certainly preferred having all of his tools at his disposal - and that one in particular. As mobile a life as he led, the mob of angry avengers had been easy enough to evade, but tonight would be a different story altogether. No, to his great misfortune, he’d been called upon to perform for Queen Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra herself at a betrothal banquet for her daughter, Princess Pavetta. In another time, it was an opportunity he’d die for, an extravagant affair filled with all the fineries of royal society. Now, however? He worried he very well _might_ die for that event, or rather _at_ it, unless he divined some way to slip past the guests’ notice, lest any of them be in some way connected to one of his more engaged evenings. _Oh, Geralt’s faced many a danger_ , he mused to himself, _but I very much doubt he’s suffered this particular problem! Even IF he had a mile-long line of incensed lords, I bet none of them would DARE to even—_

His eyes went wide. Of course, there was his answer! He hesitated, then frowned down at his uneaten meal - was it just the curse talking? He took a deep, steadying breath, and examined the thought more closely. No, no, it really did make perfect sense… If he could just convince Geralt to attend, perhaps simply having him nearby would be enough to deter any confrontation? And if not, well, surely the witcher would take pity upon his poor, fragile being and step in? Just the thought of it made him dreamily sigh, pleasing enough that he didn’t mind the sharp needling it brought along the full length of his arm. In completely subconscious ritual by now, he brought it in and massaged it with his free hand, knowing it’d be a while before it fully abated - especially if he continued daydreaming like this.

It was then that _another_ thought occurred to him. If he delighted this much in just the thought of it… Could, perhaps, the event itself… prove even _more_ beneficial? Thinking upon that fateful day in Dorian, it had been a rejection that started this whole mess. Reason followed, then, that some kind of acceptance would sort it all out. Of course, he imagined it’d have to be at least somewhat romantically charged. After all, offerings for musical entertainment, tending to Roach, or holding his possessions had hardly changed a thing, as much as they’d sent his heart aflutter. He doubted he’d get Geralt to see the outing in such a light, but if he could at least convince himself - convince _the curse_ \- that there were emotions attached… Maybe, then, he’d finally be free of its grip?

The door burst open. Jaskier whirled alongside the rest of the tavern to see who’d entered, then jumped eagerly from his seat. “Councilman!” he merrily greeted in jarring incongruence to the townsfolk’s abject horror. His satchel and lute in hand, he scurried over to a more central table, set directly ahead of the filth-covered man’s traumatized lumbering. “You bring news of the hunt, I hope?”

“Aye,” the councilman wearily lamented, “and not one bit of it pleasant, nor either pretty!”

A triumphant gleam in his eye, Jaskier drew up a chair and pulled out his paper and pen. A benefit of being Geralt’s associate? He got the rare, behind-the-scenes look at all of Geralt’s contracts, and with it some idea of Geralt’s approaches to the beasts he felled. Across today’s stratagem, he’d listed one possible way he’d have to approach the selkiemore - the only one that would leave this poor man free to scurry home without either Geralt or an ounce of the creature’s lethal attention.

Ear-to-ear giddy that the councilman’s return indicated Geralt had indeed employed - and succeeded at - this particular solution, Jaskier dipped into his ink and encouraged, “Wonderful! Tell me _everything_!!!”

* * *

He sang. He danced. He smiled.

_Don’t let them see your pain._

The evening had hardly begun, and already it’d grown evident Jaskier’s plan failed to work. Oh, he’d convinced Geralt to attend the ball easily enough. But, so far as the curse was concerned? He may as well have tried his luck with a rock. He drank what tiny allowances he could from his wordless interactions with Geralt across the room, but it was barely enough to keep the slicing feeling in his gut at bay. Whenever the tempo slowed or the merriment softened, he could feel sharp pricks pressing against the underside of his skin as if born from cords of thorns twisting through his musculature. _Focus on the music._

But his eyes kept drifting. Luckily, Geralt sat right beside Queen Calanthe - half his looks could pass for the check-ins typical of a “friendship” like theirs, and the other half he could excuse as actually being directed at his current employer. There was some truth to that, at least. The way his chest stung, and his fingertips winced, and his eyes watered, he knew he would not last the night without someone to warm his bed, and he’d be a damn fool to try and woo anyone at this particular fair. (And anyway, Geralt had rather thoroughly cocked up any chances he might’ve had at it, failing to realize it was the very long-term persistence of Jaskier acting upon his own advice.) He _needed_ that coin, damn it! And if the Queen thought for even a second he was even slightly subpar—

“Julian?”

Jaskier whirled in a panic, a stray thought blessing the fact he was currently between numbers. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped, taken with disbelief. “Germaine?!”

The young woman’s face immediately brightened, digging up long-buried memories of young love and heartbreak and forcing them back into the limelight. “I’d thought it was you! I wasn’t sure, though. Overheard one of the Lords lamenting how ‘the minstrel’s a eunuch’! Is that true, Julian? Did something happen?”

He tried to ignore the crunching in his limbs as he groaned. “No, no, that… There was a. Um. A bit of confusion, is all!”

A disappointed displeasure drew across her face. Though she wasn’t privy to the details, Countess Germaine de Stael knew him well enough to have an idea of what was really going on, and the thought of it quite obviously pained her - which, in turn, pained Jaskier, though in a perhaps more literal sense. “I see. Still galavanting about, then?”

“Well, I…” Jaskier began, scrambling through his usual excuses in search of something that could reconcile the situation. But this was different from the usual confrontations: they had a history, one fraught with passions and grievances aplenty, and the vast majority had been sparked from the very nature he now sought to vindicate.

“It’s alright, Julian,” came Germaine’s sweet reply before he could come up with anything to say. But though her lips smiled, her eyes wept, and Jaskier knew this chance encounter was already beginning to drift.

“Germaine, wait!” he called, stepping towards her and reaching for her shoulder. “Please, if you’ll spare me but a moment of your time!”

She faced him fully for a final moment, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it tight. “It was wonderful seeing you, Julian,” she replied, meeting his eyes to convey her sincerity - and also her resolute decision to remove herself from his side. “Truly. I wish you a pleasant evening.”

As Germaine slipped back into the sea of mingling royals, Jaskier’s blood seared, and he had to recoil against a nearby column to try and hide his agony. Gritting back curses, he clutched the neck of his lute so tightly his knuckles turned white, and could feel minuscule spines declaring themselves just beneath his skin. _Am I damned to perish in lovelessness?_ he silently wept, eyes falling to his lute. “Suppose I’d have been better off staying with Filavandrel,” he grimaced, riding out the pain. “Doubt I’d have minded it. Easy on the eyes.”

But though he joked, a new proposal formed in his mind. Was it possible, he wondered, that he was mistaken in the curse’s orientation? Could it be happenstance that it’d been focused around Geralt all this time? Turning his head, he sought out Germaine to scout out who her evening’s company might be, if anyone. He _had_ to entertain the possibility the curse was a matter not of a particular person but of love in general. At this moment, he’d grown convinced his life quite literally depended on it.

Memories of Peld’s deceased form haunted him. _Perhaps obsessing upon the farmer girl had been the architect of his demise? If he’d only moved on, found another, found LOVE…_ His brow softened, and as his desperation grew his eyes began to water. _Oh, Peld. Could that be the key?_

At last, he found her: standing _just_ apart from a group of nearby royals, amusedly observing the budding procession of Princess Pavetta’s suitors, a goblet of wine in hand. _She came alone!_ he rejoiced, committing himself to this next strategy. He needed a solution _now_ \- Geralt proved time and again _he_ certainly wasn’t going to be it, and the Countess was the only other person here he knew well enough to stand a chance at something enduring enough to hold the curse at bay. Of course, if Germaine refused him, he still had the fallback of a purchased embrace, so tonight would be his best opportunity to test his theory.

_But how?_ he marvelled, studying the other men occupying the hall. _Germaine has her pick of the lords. I don’t think a simple wooing will work half as well now as it did before!_

He didn’t know it at the time, but his answer came bursting into the hall in a storm of metal armor, heralded by the clanging of crossed swords and gasping of shocked guests. “Forgive my late intrusion, your majesty!” came the knight’s cry, his face hidden beneath his drawn helmet. “And for the misunderstanding with your guards!”

Jaskier’s attention perked at the disturbance, though he still cringed from the curse’s lingering torment. A development unfolded in the center of the court, somehow more interesting than the rather unruly exchange that got Geralt set beside the Queen. At first, Jaskier mostly just wanted to make sure he remembered every minute detail, certain they were witnessing what would be his next great tale. As he became more present, however, his furtive glances about the room caught the rising tension among the guards. Even a reflexively worried look to Geralt caught the hackles rising down the witcher’s neck. He, too, would have to be ready for anything, if only because he was a mostly defenseless bard standing on the edge of a circle of armed knights.

The first blades flew. In that moment, Jaskier surprised even himself, his primal instincts drawing his gaze across the line of tables behind him. _Germaine!_ he thought, suddenly markedly aware of her unarmed, unaccompanied state. As luck would have it, her eyes were turned towards him, and as chaos broke around them he used that opportunity to wave her closer, neverminding the part where he had nothing to… Well, he thought with a weary look, he had his lute. Enough to… shield their faces from splinters, he supposed, taking Germaine under one arm while the other defensively lifted his instrument before them.

“You’re a fool,” Germaine hissed under her breath while the royals went about their courtly arguments. “Isn’t that lute invaluable?”

Jaskier couldn’t help himself. He flashed her one of his classically dashing smiles. “Far less so than the life of a beauty such as you.”

Call it chance. Call it destiny. All Jaskier cared was that the cards had fallen precisely where he’d needed them to - presuming, of course, they all survived the next hour. Things rapidly unravelled after that, with all manner of havoc breaking out across the room. Jaskier managed to shuffle the pair of them away from the brunt of the scuffle, cordoning themselves in a more or less safe cower along the room’s edge. He kept his lute raised, though admittedly more because it prominently declared them non-threats rather than for its defensive capabilities. The other performers, it seemed, had fled early on - not that Jaskier blamed them. If he didn’t play such a key role in documenting Geralt’s adventures, he probably would have convinced Germaine they join them.

At one point, they all thought it’d been sorted, but just as the room’s tensions began to fall something triggered a fearsome, piercing shriek from the young princess, and with it a burst of wind that slammed everyone back against the perimeter. Even as close to the wall as they’d already been lingering, the force was enough to wrack Jaskier’s body with a sort of dry scraping, and his whole being screamed as if on fire. The relentless gale wore on him, as if to erode his flesh bit by bit, and by the time it finally died his guard had been dismantled, leaving his true agony bare for Germaine to witness. Wholly focused on what was surely to be an infamous event unfolding before them, Jaskier stared in awe about the various players, unaware that Germaine meanwhile gawked at the tiny cuts that had been scattered across his face, leaving his usually rosy cheeks streaked with something oily and black.

“Julian!” she gasped under her breath, mindful to not disturb everyone else’s pensive mood. “Your face?”

Jaskier quickly touched his fingertips to his cheek, though his eyes had already grown wide, knowing full well what he’d find there. As he’d predicted, he was met with a thin, grainy texture, and he had to hide the trembling of his lips to play the whole thing off for Germaine. “Oh, it’s nothing!” he whispered back, swiping his face with the back of his cuff. He cleaned his fingers on the back of his doublet, then offered his hand to help her up. “Just a bit of grime is all!”

Whether she believed him or not, she let the matter rest. After all, something far more monumental was coming to pass: Queen Calanthe had embraced her daughter - and with it, they suspected, her wishes. Jaskier listened close to the heartfelt words the Queen offered Princess Pavetta, focusing as hard as he could on the details so there’d be less room in his mind for the searing that consumed his muscles. He clung to the Queen’s shouted decrees, and as her proclamations rang through the hall a particular theme shone above the others: destiny.

Jaskier swallowed. He’d known, of course, that such things weighed heavy on Geralt’s mind, whether or not the grouchy old witcher would ever actually admit to as much. But as for himself? He’d honestly always surrendered its notions to the more prominent in their society: it wasn’t a thing for bards and courtesans, but rather the royals and mages and witchers of the world, the figureheads who steered their nations through history. But as his body contorted beneath his skin, and his breath drew thin, and vision began to fog, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was Destiny’s hand that ensnared him in this personal, secret hell.

Had it been Destiny that brought Germaine to him this night? Or was he merely using it as an excuse to indulge in a distraction, that he might bury the root of it further down and away from his conscience?

To be honest, he hadn’t the faintest idea. But what risk was there, truly? If it didn’t work… Well, it weren’t as though he’d be any worse off than he already was.

Between the hope this gave him and the pure warmth spilling from Pavetta and Urcheon’s display of young love, Jaskier was overcome, his heart fluttering in a defiant dispelling of its ache. He held Germaine close, and stifled his joyous tears beside a triumphant chuckle. “I think this has the makings of my greatest ballad yet!”


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier lurched. His feet slipped, and he stumbled. Arms clutching his stomach, he could do no more than let himself collide against the nearest tree. By now, he was so used to the swell bursting in his chest that he didn’t even try to hold it back - he simply threw his head to the side, opened his mouth.

It was unpleasant in the most unnatural of ways. The mass forcing its way up his throat was dry, delicate, and unsettlingly soft. It brushed against his insides as it rose, leaving behind a suffocating burn as it soaked the fluid from his flesh. This aching trail lingered long after the porous slivers had passed. Even when he finally managed to expunge it, some of its accompaniment stuck to his passage and the very back of his tongue, such that he felt no relief. His eyes watered, staring helplessly down at the sloppy mess of red petals coating his tree’s trunk and littering the forest floor - he could at last breathe, but did so hesitantly, knowing the air’s cool moisture would sting his throat the very moment he drew it in.

_You brought this upon yourself_ , he lamented, miserably turning and letting himself slide down the tree. His hands still clutched his midsection as if that might settle its sharp churning, though he knew it could offer no solace. His chest shuddered with shallow breaths too wary to provide substantial rejuvenation - he shut his eyes tight in an effort to summon his every lingering will to live. He wasn’t sure there _was_ any.

It had all been a glorious design while it lasted. The first few years, he’d even managed to delude himself into thinking the curse was gone for good: his days with the Countess de Stael were filled with music, joy, _love_ . The sharp, piercing sensations, the twisting nausea, the grainy blood, the satin retch were all long gone, and he revelled in it. Got drunk off it. Became, perhaps, _addicted_ to it. By the turn of their fourth year of courting, their brilliance began to dim, and though he tried to dismiss it as the simple fading all relationships eventually came to face his skin started growing hot, and if they went too long without a raucous tumble the all-too-familiar light emptiness gripped his stomach.

The secret scream for answers didn’t last long. As the first tendrils of despair seeped back into him, when the reality of the curse’s persistence became impossible to deny, even before he’d finished fully forming his first thought wondering _why_ he remained trapped in this hell he saw in his mind’s eye the pair of piercing stars glaring down at him, judging him from atop their black, snow-capped mountain. As time dragged on, the looming visage drifting across the backs of his eyes with increasing, inconvenient frequency, clearer and clearer with every visitation. He would gaze upon his lover, and upon finding Germaine instead of Geralt his chest would itch and his throat would close up.

“Are you alright, Julian?” she would ask, brow pinched with concern.

“Of course it is!” he would anxiously reply before throwing himself into her arms - in part to distract her from his distress, in part to drink of her well and feed the curse the love it craved.

But as yet another year passed, the well began drying up. Though she never rejected it, she questioned Jaskier’s increasing hunger - he excused it as the healthy appetite of a growing man. Even still, he could tell her love waned - and anyway, her’s wasn’t the love the earthy cords slithering through his neck desired. If he could just pretend, like he’d done before with the maidens and courtesans… If he could just convince himself he _was_ embracing—

She stared up at him with a complicated look. His brow wrinkled with worry, perhaps even fear. “Was it… subpar… ?”

She seemed to contemplate her words, then finally replied, “I know you miss him, Julian.”

“M-Miss who?!” he reflexively replied, instantly going up in a full-blown fluster. The stabbing ache had _just_ subsided, and now already it was poking back through his gut. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She considered him for a moment longer, but in the end allowed him to save face, simply nodding before cupping his cheek in her gentle palm. “Let’s go get washed up, hm?”

He wouldn’t realize for many months later that he’d taken to uttering the name he’d never won. That the Countess’s name sounded so similar made it easier to mask early on, but all the more difficult to cease entirely. Inevitably, she’d come to notice it, and the desperate muttering when he slept, and his drifting attention throughout the day. Of course she would. She tried to breach the subject on a number of occasions, and in a number of ways, but every time she was met with the same resistance: “It’s nothing. Nothing to worry about! Just a bit of reminiscing is all. Nothing wrong, of course not!”

He should have known she’d drift. She’d all but told him she was. Or perhaps he _did_ know, but simply didn’t care - anything was fine, so long as he still had love, or at least the illusion of it, and could pretend that when he laid down to sleep or burrowed in flesh or performed a tune he did so for—

“Play me a song?”

Jaskier looked up from his writing desk. “Pardon?” Though his quill dripped with ink, the pages scattered before him all remained blank.

“Play me a song,” she repeated. She stood in the doorway, hands clasped low before her. She had a peculiar look about her, not unlike the one she’d given him back in the Lioness's court.

A dry churning wrestled through his stomach.

He swallowed, desperately hoping to banish the torture before it began. “Very well,” he replied, laying down his quill. “Of course! Yes, a song. I think… I think that would be very nice! I mean, I _am_ a bard after all, and that _is_ what bards do. Erm, sing songs, that is… Ah…” He glanced nervously between her and his lute as he picked it up from its lean against the wall. “Any… um… Anything in particular?”

Her eyes fell. “You’ve… never played it for me. But I know it’s finished. I hear you mumbling it when you think I’m not there.”

His stomach hollowed out. Stabbing cords constricted about his muscles.

She drew a breath, then gently sang, “There used to be a greying tower alone on the sea…”

His eyes widened, and his lips trembled. Already, he could see the doom spelled out before him - in a desperate vie to vanquish it, he set his lute aside and poured his full focus into her, into _keeping_ her, and without aid of his instrument, without its decorative and showy theatrics, instead simply sang, “You became the light on the dark side of me!”

Germaine’s eyes flashed up and locked upon his. “Who did, Jaskier?”

“W-What do you mean?” he instantly defended. Rising from his seat, he swept towards her, hands reaching for hers. “My sweet, it’s just a ballad, inspired by love itself! It’s not about anything that actually—”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she yanked her hands away. “I know that’s not true, Julian!” She searched his face, and when she saw she’d get nothing more from him offered a final, ditch effort for him to save himself. “I can hear it in your voice. In your strumming, even. When you sing it, you… you _finally_ look and sound like my Julian. Except…” She seemed to see something in his expectant expression, and whatever it was dispelled her last vestiges of hope there’d be some way to mend things between them. As the hurt swelled, she forced a sympathetic, knowing smile, and shakily choked, “Except, I’m not the one you’re singing about, am I?”

Jaskier’s panic set his heart racing. If he lost her… If he were left alone again… And now, of all times, when he could feel the grain in his veins, the arid clot in his lungs, the needling press in his limbs? “Gera—maine,” he narrowly saved, “ _Germaine_. My love! Please. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright, Julian,” she tearfully replied, dabbing her handkerchief to her eyes. “I understand.” It wasn’t until then that Jaskier saw the small, leather case that had been leaning against the threshold - and only because Germaine had reached down to retrieve it as she turned and left the room.

“Germaine?” he questioned, quickly following her from the room and down the hall. “Germaine, where are you going? What are you doing?”

But they’d already reached their foyer, and the answer was standing just outside their open door. A very _handsome_ answer, Jaskier had to admit, but that did nothing to quell the piercing in his gut. To his credit, he seemed very awkward about the whole thing, swiftly squirreling away Germaine’s case with little more than a nod so he could leave the pair to their inevitable quarreling.

“Oi, I know him, don’t I?” Jaskier fumed. “He’s… He’s, erm… Nilfgardian bastard, right? Why’s he here?!”

“Oh, Julian!” Germaine groaned, turning to face him. “I’m _leaving_ you, Julian. Don’t make this any more difficult than it’s already been!”

His skin itched. His throat dried. “Germaine, please. Don’t do this! If you’ll just give me a chance—”

“You’ve _had_ your chances!” she wept. “Only you don’t know it because you’ve barely even lived it! Tell me: how long have we lived in this house?”

His burning lips parted to answer, but he could come up with nothing - not but a scraping irritation at the base of his neck.

She shook her head, then turned one final time to step into her waiting carriage. “Good bye, Julian.”

“Germaine, wait!” he cried. A sharp pain shot through his leg and he stumbled, catching himself upon the door frame. Germaine’s door closed with a defiant snap, and off the horses galloped, leaving him in a plume of dust. “Ger—!”

But instead of the name, there came only a flurry of deep red rose petals. He coughed and gagged around them, and swiped at his tongue to wrestle the stragglers loose. Years of fear, anxiety, and heartache thrashed through his chest, then poured from his eyes in salty tears that streamed down his face and left searing hot trails upon his cheeks. Staring down at his petal-littered palms, he finally had no choice but to accept there was only one way to be free of this - and, therefore, that he’d _never_ be free of this.

“Oh, Geralt… !”

So it was that he came to wander the surrounding woods with not but a flask and the clothes on his back. He’d managed to stave off the vile illness rending through his body for more years than he’d thought possible, far more than poor Peld had endured. Unfortunately, that made each return of his symptoms progressively worse and worse. His only hope had been making it work with the Countess and so, with that road having met its end? He felt certain that death was lurking just around the corner.

What better place than a forest to deteriorate into a mass of unkempt thorns?

He pushed himself back to a stand, though he really didn’t know why. Stubborn defiance, perhaps. If this thing was going to kill him, then by the gods he’d make it _fight_ for such an honor! He uncorked his flask and threw back another swig, soothing his dry interior with blessed inebriation. A stream trickled along at his side, and overhead the sun shone brilliantly through the thin canopy. He scoffed - would’ve been a lovely day for a picnic with his beloved. Too bad that pesky Nilfgaardian lout went and stole her away. He _hated_ Nilfgaard! At last, the tightening in his chest eased enough to draw significant air, and uncertain how much longer he’d be able to, he lifted his face to the sky and drunkenly sang as much to what birds hadn’t yet fleed.

_’Cause you all know_   
_That this bard_   
_Loved ladies from Nilfgaard_   
_'Cause Nilfgaard can kiss my—_

Jaskier blinked. Surely, his eyes were tricking him? Certainly, _his_ luck could never be so great? But lo, there he was, with frazzled white hair and unkempt black clothes… Already, he could feel the subtlest relief touch his fingertips, like the morning sun upon a blossom after too long a night. He brightened up instantly - with this reunion, perhaps there was hope for him yet?

“Geralt!”

* * *

Jaskier slumped over his mug, head cradled in the hook of his arm. “Ah, Chireadan,” he muttered tipsily. “What’s a bard to do? I am cursed to lovelessness.”

The elf offered a wide albeit tearful smile and clapped his hand upon Jaskier’s shoulder. “Fret not, my friend! These feelings… they shall pass. Together, we shall persevere through this heartache!”

“What?” Jaskier scowled at him. “No, I mean…” He hesitated, belatedly thinking better of it - he had yet to tell anyone about the curse, and he was _not_ about to tell some head-over-heels elf with an apparent taste for raven-haired, lavender-eyed death wishes. “Nevermind. I’ll figure something out.”

To be honest? Jaskier wasn’t too sure how he ended up commiserating with the elven healer over too much ale. Their short time together had spawned a kind of kindred spirit, he supposed, the both of them finding themselves at the ends of one-sided loves. Loves, ironically enough, that had somehow ended with them ramming each other in a mess of torn clothes and silken pillows and beading sweat - not that Chireadan had the faintest idea that was the case.

Perhaps also Jaskier felt he owed something to the elf. As though soothing his growth weren’t enough, whatever Chireadan had given him seemed to also dampen the curse, albeit temporarily so. He could feel the dryness beginning to set once more across his body. But, considering he’d quite literally been on his last legs just the prior day? Chireadan’s ministrations were nothing short of a blessing.

Company over cheap ale was the _least_ Jaskier could do to repay the kindness.

“That’s the spirit!” Chireadan encouraged, clapping his shoulder again before finally returning to his own personal space and lifting his drink to his lips. “After all, you’re a bard! Are you not thoroughly experienced in these matters? Why, I bet you already have ideas for how to pick yourself up after a harsh rejection?”

Pushing up from his slouch, he found Chireadan looking expectantly at him, and he frowned. “I beg your pardon? What’s _that_ supposed to mean?!”

“Oh! Just, um,” his companion quickly backpedaled. “Well, because you lot are poets, minstrels of romance and seduction! I imagine that sort of work lends itself to… ah… a highly varied and… _experienced_ life…?”

Jaskier stared at him. Thankful as he was for the elf soothing his malignant swell, he didn’t exactly fancy the idea of giving him advice on the matters of love. After all, much to Chireadan’s ignorance, his current predicament _hardly_ distinguished him as an expert on the matter - not when one sought something a bit more long-term and socially visible than a one-night gallivanting. In his current state of eased judgement, however, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt his “courtly reputation” too much to explain as much to his companion-of-the-moment. “I’ve had many lovers - this much is true. But in matters of the heart, of _real_ connection?” He sighed, looked down at his mug, then gloomily brought it to his lips. “For that, I’ve had but one love.”

Needles stirred in his chest. Even just thinking about the white-haired witcher was coaxing the curse from its medicated slumber. _He’s found someone, and I’ve run out of options. What will I do?_

Fresh waterworks welled up in the elf’s drunken eyes. “My friend… That is _beautiful_! Oh, to have that kind of love!” All of a sudden, to Jaskier’s equal horror and delight, Chireadan was waving to the barkeep and shouting, “Another round for my friend and I!” Eagerly turning back to him, he continued, “Jaskier, you must tell me! What’s she like? How long have you been entwined?”

_Great_ , he silently groaned, debating how much to correct or play along with. When he finally did continue, he did so hesitantly, making sure to take his time lest he accidentally reveal one detail too many. “It is an unrequited obsession. I’m not even sure… _she_ … knows I love her at all.”

His neck grew warm. His mouth grew dry. He threw a slosh of ale down his throat.

“And yet, still you hold hope for her?” Chireadan replied, nodding sympathetically. “Oh, Jaskier, it is indeed not easy to endure such pining. Have you perhaps considered telling her?” With a grin just a _bit_ too bright for Jaskier’s current inebriation, the elf encouraged, “You are a good man, and a skilled entertainer! Surely a man of your caliber would be to her liking?”

_Why did I have to fall for a witcher?_ Jaskier silently lamented, idly eyeing Chireadan’s almost childlike zeal and admiration. “She’s no ordinary woman, Chireadan. She’s…” He hesitated. How in the world was he going to explain this in terms that wouldn’t lead back to Geralt? “She’s very capable. Independent, one could say. Doesn’t do herself many favors in the way of self-advocacy, but if people would just give her a chance…” He trailed off, realizing he was getting off-topic, then wove the rest of it aside. “Anyway. She’s just not the sort of woman who stands to gain much from a relationship with little me.”

“ _Are_ you little?” he pressed. When Jaskier only furrowed his brow at him, he glanced down to Jaskier’s trousers then back up.

Instantly, Jaskier’s face went red. “Th-That’s not the point!” he proclaimed. _Well, it COULD be_ , he meanwhile considered. _You’ve given the man enough baths by now to know he’s VERY blessed in that particular area._ “The _point_ is,” he definitely continued, in part to overpower his lustful thoughts, “my chances with her are shaky at best, and asking about it could very well put an end to whatever relationship we _do_ have.”

Something was wedging its way between his muscles. Too much air took residence in his gut.

“That is most unfortunate, my friend,” the elf replied, raising his mug. “You have my condolences. Is she near, at least?”

“Oh, very,” Jaskier scoffed. “Probably spearing her latest toy at this very moment, no doubt.”

By the time he realized what it’d looked like he said, the deed was already done, an impression setting in Chireadan’s head by the look of his impressed - and, dare he say, rather intrigued - expression. He didn’t bother correcting the matter. “A-Ah. I… I see. That’s… quite a woman!” He got past it soon enough, tilting his head with more of his quaint fascination. “And here you sit, simply enduring that knowledge. How do you do it?”

Jaskier rose a brow at him, and then his mug.

Chireadan smirked and raised his own in toast. “Of course.” As they shared a drink, Jaskier hoped that’d be the end of it. Before even their mugs hit the table, Chireadan was off again. “Well, if you won’t give her a shot, why will you not instead look for another? Isn’t it a bit…” He struggled with his words, trying to be kind to Jaskier’s predicament. “…unfair?”

“Can’t,” Jaskier grumbled, shaking his head. “Tried that. Didn’t work.”

His arms started to itch. _Ah, there it is. Was wondering when you’d show up._

“I see,” his companion contemplated. “So then you must settle for a love by proxy, of sorts?”

On impulse, Jaskier had prepared another rebuttal, but Chireadan’s meaning belatedly came to him and he instead turned a curious eye, a tiny spark of inspiration lighting in his mind. “How do you mean?”

“Well, because she has a lover,” Chireadan replied. When still no understanding surfaced on Jaskier’s face, he elaborated, “I can’t imagine you would simply sit there and suffer? At the very least, if you witness her loving another… Well, then you could come to understand the things she does to show love, and imagine what it might be like to be loved by her?” At last, the realization dawned on Jaskier, and Chireadan couldn’t help but offer an awkward chuckle. “My friend, is this not how your pining has endured? The reason you continue to dream and fantasize about her despite never receiving her love for yourself?”

_No, actually - I’ve likely got that damned rose to thank for that_ , Jaskier bitterly mused, but aloud he quickly nodded. “Oh, yes! Yes, of course. That’s…”

He grew quiet. The needling, the warmth, the cutting, the nausea, the itching… It all remained apparent, but… still, somehow. Like a held breath. The wheels turned in his head, and belatedly he realized he’d subconsciously taken to precisely what Chireadan suggested, the back of his mind circling around that _look_ Geralt had when he’d stormed back into the ill-fated estate.

Jaskier’s every attempt at appeasing the curse thus far had been centered around finding a substitute for Geralt. It’d served him fairly well over the years, all things considered, but his latest attempts at something _real_ with Germaine had made it rather explicitly clear imagining Geralt’s love would serve him no longer.

But, with Yennefer in the picture?

It was true he’d never actually witnessed Geralt care for someone, much less actually be affectionate with them. (Well, apart from the few moments across their friendship where Jaskier could pretend Geralt’s amusement spoke to something deeper.) And it was further true Jaskier _loathed_ Yennefer, and only in part because he knew the witch could snuff him out with little more than a fleeting thought. But, so long as Geralt was between _her_ legs and not his… If it gave him some small glimpse into what it might be like to be loved by the crotchety old witcher…

He thought of that final, voyeuristic sight. The shattered windows had allowed enough light to expose, clear as day, _precisely_ what the pair were up to, and how, and with how much vigor. Even if that hadn’t been the case, neither of them seemed the slightest bit concerned with masking their panting, their grunting, their moaning. Indeed, Jaskier and Chireadan had been completely forgotten in the cloud of their lust. Chireadan had tried to give them privacy, but despite those efforts Jaskier found he’d witnessed _plenty_ enough to mentally place himself where Yennefer had mounted the witcher and imagine that Geralt’s twisted, needy expression had been driven by - and given _for_ \- him.

He drew in a breath. His muscles relaxed. His chest stilled. Jaskier smirked, leaning back in his seat. _Perhaps Yennefer’s presence might serve some purpose yet._ Lifting his mug, he offered Chireadan a coy smile, one which the elf met with an intrigued look. “That’s precisely how it is, dear friend.”

A more confident smile turned the elf’s lips. He lifted his mug towards Jaskier. “Then, may our dreams sate us until that glorious day our hearts at last reach their paradise!”

“Yes,” Jaskier agreed, eyes sparkling with renewed hope as he met his companion’s toast. “To paradise!”

* * *

“ _Oh_ ho ho hahaha!” Jaskier chuckled, anxiously masking his squirming as he felt the alluring ache wrack his body. _You hate her_ , he coached himself as he babbled on through a string of insincere rejections. _Well, you ACTUALLY do. But don’t betray you need her._ He laid a hand upon his companion’s shoulder, and through that touch alone could feel the witcher’s mesmerized still. The effect was swift and immediate, whispering its lies through Jaskier’s ears and quelling the suffocating air in his chest. Aloud, he proclaimed the false charade he knew would stand no ground. “Geralt? Shall we?”

“I’m in.”

“Mother of…”

_Perfect. Bet they’ll have another go at it. Damn that sadistic seductress! Bless my stars she’s here._

Yennefer and Geralt had been off and on for six years now. More off than on, really. Theirs was a tumultuous, storming romance that burst to life for a passionate handful of hours before snuffing out without a trace, only to crash down upon some poor and unsuspecting tavern or court a few days, weeks, months later. Most of the time, the ordeal was raucous enough - and Jaskier’s bed close by enough - that he would have heard them clear as day even if he _weren’t_ trying to scrounge up every stray detail, every sound and scent and precious taste of the air like a drop of vital medicine that kept his days painless and his nights peaceful. Those times Jaskier _hadn’t_ been around to catch their side-flung debris, he donned a pretense of fearful disdain for Geralt’s lover, using concern for the witcher’s well-being as excuse to drill him on the details of his time pressed to Yennefer’s bosom. That, of course, tended to end with sharp sarcasm Jaskier couldn’t quite discern the validity of, including one snide remark about somehow involving some poor unicorn, but even that was _just enough_ for Jaskier to stave off the sharp thorns threatening to crush his throat, particularly when combined with a cheap whore for the evening.

The multi-pronged approach left Jaskier feeling only _slightly_ guilty for using his friend’s struck heartstrings to satisfy himself. He rationalized it with every excuse in the book: he needed to keep sane if he were to serve Geralt; it was fine so long as it didn’t affect the witcher; really, it was reasonable payment for the work Jaskier did to chronicle Geralt’s services to the continent; if they _really_ cared about discretion, they’d take more time to seclude themselves; it was honestly _Geralt’s_ fault he had to do this, since his rejection had triggered the curse that drove Jaskier to do all this in the first place. He’d even begun composing a song about the pair’s turbulent relationship - he _needed_ to witness them so that he’d accurately capture and adequately express it in his music. (Not that he’d _ever_ let Geralt know as much. No, _that_ excuse, and the song accompanying it, was purely for himself.)

But as the years dragged on, the guilt grew worse, and the excuses fell quiet. When he sung, when he dreamed, when he loved, he struggled to cling to those distant feelings that had warmed him in the pitch of winter: the subtle smirk, the concerned glare, the urgent grabbing. Even these sweet memories found themselves poisoned by his addiction, twisted into visions of lust undeterred by the fact Geralt had eyes only for another. _I don’t care_ , the curse wailed. _I need not his heart, if only I can have his body._

It was all a stubborn lie, of course. His skin burned so hot, and so regularly, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d fully buttoned his doublet, and in fact often took to discarding it entirely. The risk there, of course, was it removed a precious layer of obscurity, so he kept himself moving, even if only subtly so, to keep the fall of his tunic from settling too much against the tiny bumps sweeping across his skin. He claimed he was simply too busy recording Geralt’s adventures to sing, when in truth the only times his throat didn’t scathe from mere breath alone were in the days immediately following the solicitation of a few salacious rounds.

As they made their steady trek up the mountainside, it grew quite clear this would not be one such night. The task before them stood to consume a few days at least, and he rather doubted there’d be any men or women of eager pockets and loose standards along the way. He tried his best to keep his mind off it. Luckily, the leader of their group, Borch, came with a pair of elegant distractions, and he had not an ounce of shame to keep himself from courting them in whatever meager and desperate way he could. Anything and everything he could think to say to them he did, if only to keep his eyes from lingering on Geralt and Yennefer too long. To stop his mind from imagining their intertwined bodies and bringing upon himself a jealous yearning so intense it would’ve crippled a less experienced man.

When they made camp the first night, he let the antics settle - but only because by then Yennefer had made it quite clear there’d be no activity between her and the witcher. Not yet, at least. She had some other poor fool wrapped tight around her finger, leaving Jaskier to drink freely of whatever stray, muted affections slipped through Geralt’s stoic poise. He imagined the stubborn hold of Geralt’s eyes stuck to his open doublet rather than Yennefer’s plush fur. He pretended the subtle tense of his muscles were for him, that the possessive jealousy was triggered by the thought someone might dare approach his bard.

_His bard_ , Jaskier thought, absent-mindedly scrawling their largely uneventful day away into his field journal. _Wouldn’t that be a treat?_

“Will you be joining me?”

It was hardly the first time Yennefer made a show of massaging the poor knight’s ego, and everyone _but_ the knight seemed aware of it. “My Lady, I… would never degrade your honor in such a way.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Jaskier couldn’t help but retort, “but that ship has sailed, wrecked, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean.” Predictably, it earned him a small albeit sharp smack that, despite its true meaning and intent, set the leaves in his chest delightedly rustling. _Oh, to be touched by him!_ He masked his smile alongside the group’s communal chortling as the poor knight finished darting for the surrounding brush.

Though the conversation turned to darker topics, a portion of his mind lingered upon that fleeting contact. Its effects rippled through him, melting the sediment in his veins and easing the press of spines beneath his skin. If something so tiny could affect him so greatly, what further healing would be gained from a genuine look, a smile… a kiss? Jaskier drew into himself, desperately trying to still the tremble of his lips. _Don’t let yourself hope. It’ll only make it worse._

But this was so much worse than mere hope. His decades-long search for a cure, a real and _permanent_ cure, led him down only a series of wild goose chases. Even now, he knew what the only true answer was, saw it sitting right there beside him, but the answer even still stared at another, remaining ever oblivious to the bard’s desperate pining. Jaskier had to consider: at what point would it be worth the risk to simply ask? He’d lingered upon this earth for many years, what most would consider a long and happy life if only because they knew not the turmoil that kept such things beyond his grasp. A growing part of him was warming up to the idea of simply taking the final leap, of accepting death as a kind and merciful relief. At the very least, Jaskier couldn’t deny at least a part of his initial eagerness to dive into a dragon hunt had been with the hope the rending of teeth or slashing of claws or engulfing of flames would at last end his misery.

That way, no one would ever know what had truly caused his lifelong suffering.

He tossed the question back and forth all throughout the night and most of the next day’s trek. The longer he debated it, the more he found himself inching towards the cliff, and that scared him. Was he truly ready to die? Surely he had something left to live for? He turned his head to the horizon, far off and fading through the clouds now that they’d breached the treeline. _You’re not sound of mind_ , he told himself. _The air’s thin up here. It’s making you think funny._ But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself of as much, he found he couldn’t even pretend to believe it.

It would take nothing short of death to shake him of his drifting attachment to living. Fear started the job the very moment he stepped out onto the thin, rickety boards lining the mountainside. A stray thought noted the convenient scenario, how a perfectly reasonable slip would spell his demise. When that very thing stole his footing, his impulse woke, clinging to the chain and pulling himself back to a stand. The curse flared, and suddenly every inch of his body felt lit with fire. _No!_ it screamed, searing his eyes to tears. _You dare to deny me?!_

But not until the loud crack of snapping planks shook his core did his own spirit shed its melancholy. In Borch’s upward stare, he saw the glisten of a long and colored life, of hopes and dreams and ambitions. He of course shared the others’ concern, but beneath it all something broke and dried his throat. An unpleasant swell took residence in his lungs. As his skin began to itch, he found himself remembering what had started this hell in the first place, his eyes gently shifting towards the white-haired guardian that had seized his heart so many years ago. _I want that._

His heart raced through the rest of their climb. At one point, Geralt questioned it - Jaskier insisted it was simply the exertion. Silken sheets lined his throat, and though he stole a few hidden chances to claw it from his mouth even still it burdened his breath. Yennefer took notice - Jaskier offered a snide remark comparing breathing mountain air to breathing through a stuffed mouth, and how he was used to neither. When at last they reached the peak, he claimed he needed a moment to regain himself. It was an understandable request, and not far from the truth - he simply abstained from correcting their assumption the mountain was to blame.

Keeling over behind a large mass of rock, Jaskier clutched his stomach and unloaded the curse’s latest havoc. The grotesquely beautiful display no longer horrified him, for he knew its cause and cure alike. Instead, after wave upon wave of crimson petals spilled passed his lips, he had to note its potency and fervor, and in this knew his condition continued to devolve. Really, if he were honest with himself, he’d been on the decline since that fateful day in Dorian. _Isn’t that a thought?_ he bitterly mused. _To have peaked at the ripe, old age of twenty-one?_ His eyes glistened at the thought of it, envisioning Borch’s creviced face as it disappeared beneath the mist, then wondered how it might be to look like that himself, ancient and fulfilled.

Rising at last to a stand, he turned to gaze towards the camp and found Geralt perched upon a log, staring out across the surrounding peaks. He looked calm and serene, taken with a distance that reminded him of their first days together. If there was ever a time where Jaskier might slip through his steely shell and inspire him to think of the non-monster-slaying aspect of life… this was it. He drew a steadying breath, uncertain how far he’d go, knowing he was already dangerously close to a point beyond which this could very well be the last conversation he ever had with the witcher.

Jaskier approached Geralt’s side slowly. Cautiously. Giving Geralt plenty of time to recognize his presence before settling down beside him upon the log. Even then, he waited a moment more, assessing the particular mood draped over his friend and fishing for the right words to say - if even there were any. Eyes flickering over Geralt’s faraway stare, he could tell his mind lingered upon those same fading faces that had brought Jaskier’s sense of trajectory into hyper-focus. Of course, there was one major difference between them, one whose effects manifested in the subconscious shift of Geralt’s body and clench of his fists.

_Always taking on the world’s burdens_ , Jaskier thought somberly. Aloud, he spared Geralt any such lectures, knowing instead what the man needed, whether he recognized it or not, was to simply be comforted himself. Tone softened and eyes fixed upon the horizon, he gently replied, “You did your best. There’s nothing else you could have done.”

Silence. Not unusual for the stoic witcher, but not exactly helpful either. The tiny shifts in Geralt’s posture betrayed the man was listening, but still his eyes stuck to the mountains. Jaskier’s heart raced. He yearned to spill it all, to cry out and confess of the vines writhing through his gut and the thorns scraping along his flesh, but he couldn’t. Not like this. Not when Geralt sat so obviously distressed and broken. (Well, obvious to _him_ , anyhow. He noted Yennefer’s distinct absence from the log.)

A roundabout approach, perhaps? After all, Geralt didn’t need to know about the curse, and Jaskier didn’t need to shovel that onto all of his other problems. The _point_ here was happiness, of living life while they still had it - of spending as much of it _together_ as they could. If Jaskier could at least just convince Geralt of that much…

“Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow?” He dressed himself in a sly smirk, evoking what little charm he could muster. “That is, if you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a…” He faltered, nearly choking over the words he wished he could say but couldn’t. “…worthy travel companion?”

At last, the tiniest curl touched Geralt’s lips, and even a faint grunt disturbed the breeze.

Again Jaskier felt the bloom of salvation melt through his limbs, worsening his smile and encouraging him further. “We could head to the coast?” he chided, but as his voice gave the suggestion life his mind began to see it lain before him. The pair of them, lounging upon the beach, nestled beside each other, the sun beating down upon their faces while the ocean lapped against their feet. A tremble infected his voice, for fear the next word, or the next, or the next, would shatter the illusion and cast him back into despair. When he dared continue, it was muted and choked, strangled by the knowledge of just how badly he wished his words would come true. “Get away for a while?”

Nothing.

He panicked. Had he ventured too far? Had he crossed that line? _Blame it on something else._ He scrambled for an excuse and presented the one most immediately available: the truth. “Sounds like something Borch would say, isn’t it? ‘Life is too short.’” He warily glanced between Geralt and the sprawling vista. Could this be his opportunity? “…’Do what pleases you… while you can.’”

The effect was almost immediate. “Composing your next song?”

_Yes_ , his spirit wept, _but not the one you think I’m writing._ The palpitations wracking his heart grew too much to bear. _I can’t. I’m afraid._ “No, just, uh…” _Not yet. I have to be sure. If I blow my one chance…_ He swallowed his anxiety and surveyed Geralt for any stray sign that any of this was working. “Just trying to work out what pleases me.”

There it hung, suspended between them. A suggestion. A request. A confession. He knew better than to think Geralt would detect its layered nuances, particularly distracted as he was by their recent loss. But if he could just nudge Geralt in that direction, get him to consider and ponder the path that might lead to paradise…

If it worked, he couldn’t know. Geralt offered him no further words, only a hollow smile and grateful nod. Jaskier watched helplessly as the witcher stood and left his side, the constriction in his chest tightening with every step drawing him further and further away. He parted his lips to call again to his companion, but the air was too thin, and his throat too clogged. Instead, he choked, doubled over, slid from the log and barely caught himself with a last-minute fling of his arm. Huddled upon the ground, nestled against the log like a newborn babe to its mother, he squirmed. Again, as so many times before, something inched its way up his throat, but amid the usual soft mass swelled something else. It was thick, harsh, and rigid, and a flurry of tiny points coating its surface pricked its way along his vulnerable tissue.

He lurched, struggling to get it out as swiftly as possible. Already, his fears pictured what cruel fate had at last approached him. The very moment he felt it pass the back of his tongue, petals already spilling to the ground, his hands went to his mouth and frantically snatched at the thing stealing his breath. A feeble mercy granted him but a premonition of his encroaching reality, his hands freeing from his throat but a single length of thorn-riddled vine, no more than a couple feet in length.

Still, that was plenty enough for him to know he’d reached the end of his rope.

_Tomorrow. That will be my last hope. I’ve no choice, I MUST ask… nay, BEG Geralt to grant me his heart. If I do not do this, if I fail to win him once and for all… Then, thus has my doom been sealed._


	4. Chapter 4

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”_

Geralt’s hand clenched. Rubbed thin velvet between his fingertips. It’d been nearly two years since some strange sense of sentiment compelled him to grab them, yet still they remained in his pocket, as fresh and vibrant and fragrant as the day he found them.

Across the dwindling fire, a pair of gentle, green eyes watched him. At last, a feeble, hesitant voice ventured out between thin lips. “You’re doing it again.”

His feline glare snapped up to her, fierce and accusatory, but by now they’d lost whatever intimidation they’d once inspired in the young woman. Cirilla knew him plenty well enough to call his play at gruffness, and besides that had already called him out, correctly, on his idle stewing. For him to deny it would only earn him the ridicule of needing to justify himself to his own ward. He pulled his hand from his pocket and stood from the log. “Good night, Ciri.”

“Again?” she interrupted, stopping him mid-turn. It was a bizarre scene to say the least: a burly, armed and armored witcher heeding a child no larger than a particularly stubborn tree branch like a naughty urchin suffering his parents’ reprimanding. He certainly didn’t _like_ the dynamic, but nor had he found himself able to keep it any other way, perhaps because he cherished her - or rather, his idea of her - enough to want to shield her from all the world’s harshness, even and especially any born from himself. And so, rather than snap or yell or even growl, he just stood there, gaze averted, and endured her nagging. “That’s the third time this week, Geralt. An alghoul nearly had your head the last time!”

“Ghoul,” he impulsively corrected, then immediately regretted it.

She raised a brow at him. “Oh? Oh, a ghoul, was it? Now, dear teacher - and please, forgive my ignorance, but I _am_ still quite new to this - remind me, what was the difference between the two? Something about relative intelligence, was that it?”

He scowled at her, but ignored her question, instead falling for a _different_ trap. “Caught me off guard—”

“Exactly!” she declared, while he silently scolded himself for trying to excuse himself. “You’re distracted, Geralt, and it’s only getting worse. What if, next time, it’s a griffin? Or Nilfgardian spies?”

“Griffin’s don’t—” he began, but abruptly cut himself off and rolled his eyes. “I concede the point.” Mood thoroughly soured, he slumped back down upon his log, hands clasped before him to keep them from wandering back into his pockets. His eyes stared into the flames, as if trying to burn away his thoughts.

Cirilla looked over him. They weren’t… “close,” per say. Not in the usual sense. But she supposed she was about as close as Geralt got to anyone - a rather depressing thought, considering how little he’d opened up to her even after all this time. What was more, she imagined destiny obligated _most_ of that closeness. On the other hand, it afforded her certain advantages: she couldn’t conceive of him letting anyone else push and prod him nearly so much as she did. Ultimately deciding to wield that very power, she moved from where she’d been situated and, without preamble, sat herself directly beside him. “Talk to me.”

Geralt scoffed at her. “No.”

She glared back. “I wasn’t asking.”

“You expect me to just tell you my life’s story?” he incredulously mused. “Just like that?”

“Well, not your _whole_ life’s story,” she replied, shooting him a snicker. “We haven’t got _that_ long.”

“Mm,” he chuckled, turning back to the fire. Be it destiny or luck, the pair shared a similar line of humor. Actually, it wasn’t too far off from…

He grew oddly still, the smile fading from his lips. Concern softened Cirilla’s brow. She thought to offer him some kind of comfort, but before she could reach out to him his lips were shifting, and a single word whispered through his lips.

“Jaskier.”

She frowned. “The bard?” She looked him over, then eyed his pocket. “The one who sings about your adventures?”

“Sang,” he corrected. “Pretty sure I put an end to his ‘services’.”

Despite her best efforts, Cirilla couldn’t restrain a mild laugh. “That’s what all this is about? Someone you hurt?”

Now it was _his_ turn to lift a brow, his eyes sliding questioningly over to her.

“I mean, it’s a reasonable thing to be upset about,” Cirilla replied. “It’s just not…” She hesitated, realizing how she was coming across. “Well, you don’t really seem to stew on anything at all. Much less actual people.”

“Haven’t talked to you much about people,” he pointed out. “You don’t know who I’m stewing on.”

“I have my guesses,” she offered, trying to be delicate. After he left her an expectant pause, she continued, “Renfri. Lady Yennefer.” She blinked. “Wait, did you _love_ Jaskier?”

His eyes widened, and his tone grew terse. “He was my travelling companion.”

“That’s not a ‘no’,” she pointed out.

He snarled, then turned his glare back upon the fire. “We never fucked.”

“Still not a ‘no’.”

Geralt said nothing. Betrayed nothing.

_“Promise me you’ll wait there.”_

Cirilla watched his fingertips subconsciously return to their worrying. He’d grown so self-absorbed again that he started the moment her thin hand slid between his - but he didn’t pull away, and she didn’t ask him for anything more.

She didn’t have to.

“I… think something’s wrong,” he finally admitted upon a heavy sigh. One hand still holding hers, he slipped the other into his pocket and, for the first time, produced some of its secreted contents: the bold, red petals of a rose. He watched her puzzled expression as she examined them, meanwhile explaining, “I found them shortly after the last time I saw him.” He winced, feeling a sharp pang in his chest. “After I… cast him off. You remember the dragon I told you about?”

“Of course,” she murmured. “The one you and Lady Yennefer saved?”

“Jaskier was there.” He hesitated. “Sort of. We got a bit of a lead on him and the others, so he didn’t catch sight of the real Borch himself. He rejoined us just after, and that damned dragon…” He felt Cirilla squeeze his hand, and only then realized how tight his chest had tensed and his jaw had clenched. He closed his eyes and drew a long, deep breath. “I was in a rage. Said a lot of things I shouldn’t have. Didn’t chase after him, though, because I knew he’d be better off without me berating him all the time. Knew he’d be happier.”

_“I haven’t the time for this, Jaskier!”_

“How unlike you,” Cirilla chided, her tone teasing.

He glared at her, but didn’t deny it. She was right, after all. Instead, he reached over and passed her one of the petals, letting it fall from his hand into her palm. “Found these on my way back down the mountain, near one of the—”

They both froze, staring at Cirilla’s open hand. As soon as the petal had left Geralt’s fingers, its satin luster faded, and by the time it came to rest upon Cirilla the black of decay consumed all traces of its former crimson beauty. Shrivelled, dry, and weak, it barely held its meek form before the softest breeze toppled it from her hand and it shattered in the wind like ash.

Dread gripped Geralt, robbing him of whatever other words he’d thought to offer about his past. Cirilla looked up at him with wide eyes gleaming in the moonlight, the flickering campfire casting omens through the shadows of her face. “We have to find him.”

Geralt’s eyes pulled from their stupor to better focus upon Cirilla. Already, his instincts scoured his full encyclopaedic knowledge for any trace of relevance. Twenty years’ worth of memories flooded back to him, re-examining his every interaction with the bard for any clue of what had happened.

_“You’re mumbling again.”_

He wet his lips. Struggled to surface enough from his silent searching to reach Cirilla. Let her come to his aid. “Where? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

She squeezed his hand. “That’s not true, Geralt. I may not know you very well, but… Well, the silent types are always the ones who listen best. I’d wager you know him much better than you think.”

Geralt turned away in a defiant huff. Nonetheless, he shoved the rest of his hand’s petals back into his pocket, as though suddenly afraid he’d lose them all, and closed his eyes. He focused, forcing the frantic noise of his anxieties to quiet so he could peer through his haze of vague memories. Jaskier’s face came to him easily, as it always had: his clump of soft, brown hair; the bright, overwhelmingly optimistic sparkle of his blue eyes; the smooth wrap of his soft skin around his boyish features. How many hours had he spent staring at that face, wondering how someone like him had come to be in the company of a man so wild and alive and _human_? Maybe that was precisely why: Jaskier’s boundless capacity for expression more than made up for Geralt’s general lack thereof. More often than not, it had ruffled Geralt’s feathers, to say the least. But now, surrounded by the silence of Jaskier’s absence? He couldn’t help but wonder if the reason Jaskier irked him, what had been pushing Geralt out of his comfort zone this entire time, had been the fact that, with Jaskier around, Geralt couldn’t help but feel all the things he’d sworn he wouldn’t.

The more he thought of his friend, allowed himself to be exposed to that deep and poignant nostalgia, the more vivid the details grew. Color bloomed against the back of his eyelids, and the rustling leaves turned to the gentle plucking of lute strings.

_But did you know that when it snows_   
_My eyes become large, and the light that you shine can be seen?_

“Um,” Geralt murmured, the bard steadily coming into better focus with every recalled note. “He… dressed nice. Fancier even than… than most bards, I think. And he kept… throwing some long, ridiculous name about.”

Cirilla frowned. “Was he a noble?”

Geralt resignedly shook his head. “Never specified. Never—” A fresh memory pierced his reflexive excuse. His eyes tore open and whirled upon Cirilla so suddenly it startled the unsuspecting girl. “University!”

“What?” Cirilla impulsively replied. “You mean, he attended it? I would hope so - he _is_ a bard, after all.”

Frustrated with his own scrambled thoughts, Geralt idly looked around the forest as he tried to explain. “He mentioned it once. It was… relevant, somehow. Near where we were, I think.”

_“I’ll come meet you in—”_

“Dorian!” he abruptly barked, already turning on his toe and bounding towards Roach.

“Geralt!” Cirilla scolded, conflicted and glancing between him and their campfire. “What are you doing?! We can’t just leave a—”

He’d already mounted and steered Roach around, cutting her off with a sudden thrust of his hand that snuffed out the fire in an instant. She was still stunned when he reached down and hoisted her upon Roach’s back like she were nothing - luckily, they’d ridden together so often muscle memory took over and corrected her positioning before him. “Hyah!” Geralt cried, spurring Roach into a gallop with a sharp flick of her reigns and a kick of his heels.

“Geralt, where are we going?” Cirilla implored, holding on as best she could as Roach rapidly picked up speed. “You really think Jaskier’s hiding out in some farmer village like Dorian?”

“No,” he grunted, directing Roach out of the forest and onto the main road. A quick survey of the sky oriented him northward. “His university was near Dorian. Had a friend who settled there.” The ground solidified beneath Roach’s hooves, and her speed doubled from the stable footing. “Never talked about his childhood, but couldn’t shut up about university. Used to prattle on about how he’d best half their professors, especially with his extensive ‘field experience.’”

“So, if he were hurting,” Cirilla followed along, “and he wanted to go somewhere in search of comfort…” She craned her neck to try and catch Geralt’s eye. He was focused on the road ahead, the look in his piercing eyes so intense she couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of sympathy. She made her guess hesitantly, like a stranger chancing across a secret affair. “Oxenfurt?”

To her great relief, a triumphant smirk touched his lips. “Oxenfurt.”

* * *

They rode all night and well into the following morning. Cirilla managed to rest her eyes across a stretch of grassy plains, where the road was flat and smooth, until a short while later the rustling of a passing town stirred her. She wriggled a bit under Geralt’s arms to look up and assess him: his eyes were heavy and bloodshot. Sympathy softened her brow, and she looked back down to Roach, who she could tell was beginning to tire.

“We should take a break,” she murmured.

Nothing.

“Geralt!” she tried again.

He grunted, signalling he’d heard - he just didn’t care.

Cirilla sighed, then slid a small hand atop one of his. His knuckles were cold to the touch, and his skin chapped. She gave it a tiny squeeze. “Roach needs water. You don’t want her to give out before we can reach him, do you?”

That did the trick - albeit begrudgingly so. As luck would have it, a river stretched out just a bit further north of them, providing the perfect opportunity to pull over and let Roach refresh herself. But while Roach gratefully lapped the water and Cirilla sat back against a small boulder, Geralt couldn’t keep still. He anxiously paced back and forth through the tall grass enough to wear a small clearing into the ground. Though he never barked anything to try and rush Roach, Cirilla caught him throw her the occasional impatient glance, note that she wasn’t ready, clench his jaw, then get back to pacing. All the while, one hand remained shoved in his pocket, no doubt fingering his stash of petals.

_“I’m tired, Jaskier.”_

_Snow caked the road. It’d be a treacherous journey back to Roach. Already, he was calculating the impact of this very delay. Nonetheless, as Jaskier skittered towards him, he couldn’t help but note the odd rose left upon the road, already dusted with soft snow, and feel the tiniest snap somewhere deep in his core. But why on earth would he feel bad for a rose, of all things?_

_He turned to the road ahead, so Jaskier couldn’t see how such a little thing affected him. “What about your flower?”_

Nothing in all his years of witcher training had prepared him for something quite like this. Why _would_ it? Flowers were a herbalist’s purview. What he really needed was a mage - Yennefer, he betted, might know something of it, but then of course that situation was an entirely separate sack of shit he didn’t care to dive back into any time soon.

_This is why I don’t get involved_ , he silently fumed.

_“Except you actually do. ALL of the time.”_

Even Roach seemed to understand his distress. As soon as she’d refreshed herself, she turned and stepped up to his side, and in just a few moments more they were off again. They kept along the river - by Geralt’s judgement, it led directly through White Bridge. Oxenfurt laid just beyond, standing tall upon the western bank. It took the whole rest of the day, with one more rest passing in much the same manner as the first, and small rations consumed from Geralt’s sparse stores. The sun had long since disappeared behind the Temerian peaks, casting tendrils of thin light winding across the stressed land. As soon as the city’s towers breached the horizon, Cirilla could feel the relief sigh out of the man behind her, though that alone would not slow his quest. Had it not been for the bridge and surrounding guards, Cirilla felt certain Geralt would have galloped Roach right up to the academy’s doors, perhaps even _though_ them.

It proved a mild struggle to keep up with Geralt as he stormed through the city. She managed it thanks to her one advantage over the witcher: she was _far_ more used to navigating packed cities than he was, regaining lost ground every time he stopped to demand information of the surrounding signs with ever-growing aggravation. “It’s just over there,” she guided him as they at last reached the academy’s quarter. “Through that gate. The one with the red shield?”

“Thanks,” he growled, bounding past her towards the gate.

By now, a full moon shone high above, gleaming magnificently against a sea of stars. Just inside the academy’s gates, a small courtyard was lit with paper candles, a small gathering of schoolboys huddled around a single musician beneath the tree. The boy say with a large, flat instrument - a gusli, if memory served - lain across his lap, his fingers expertly plucking out an elegant tune while his voice entranced his small audience. It wasn’t the _best_ work, of course, but it struck Cirilla as oddly familiar, and when she finally realized why she quickly threw out a hand and snatched Geralt’s wrist.

“Geralt!” she hissed, garnering his attention likely more from irritation than interest. Before he could scold her, she jerked her head towards the gathering. “Listen.”

“I don’t have time—” he began grumbling, but even that was enough pause to let the music touch his ears, and immediately his eyes grew wide.

_I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting_  
 _If this is the path I must trudge_  
 _I’ll welcome my sentence_  
 _Give to you my penance_  
 _Garroter, jury and—_ AAH!

The instrument toppled from the boy’s lap as he abruptly stood and pressed himself back against the tree. The others likewise jumped to their feet and whirled upon their sudden guests, equal parts confused and terrified and intrigued. Their wide eyes drifted between the fearsome Geralt and apologetic Cirilla, struggling to make sense of their presence - a question whose assessment left them ill-prepared to endure the witcher’s sprung interrogation.

“That song,” Geralt growled at the performer, nearly scaring the piss out of the poor boy.

“W-What?” he stammered, thoroughly out of sorts. “Yes? Did… Did you like it?”

Geralt left the question fully ignored. “Where?!”

Cirilla stepped in at that point, laying a gentle hand upon his arm as she addressed the trembling boy. “He means, where did you learn it? It’s… familiar to us,” she replied, deciding it better to spare everyone the details. On a normal day, the song hit a rare, sensitive spot for Geralt: she didn’t want to consider how his current state of panic might exacerbate that.

To their mutual surprise, the group fell quiet, exchanging furtive glances amongst themselves. Geralt grit his teeth, hoping it’d aid him in maintaining composure. If it did, the impact was unmeasurable. “Answer,” he demanded.

It grew evident at least part of what gave the group pause was the belated dawning of exactly who it was that stood before them. Cirilla caught one boy’s eyes waver about Geralt’s hair before he at last stepped forward, pulling his hat from his head and holding it before him out of respect. “Please understand, Sir. Renditions of that song travelled all across the land far faster than any man could.”

“We’d been practicin’ it for _weeks_ afore its composer arrived!” another chimed in, seeming to think the testimonies were their key to forgiveness. “When Professor Pankratz returned—”

“Who?” Geralt snapped, piercing eyes narrowing upon the boy.

“P-Professor Pankratz!” the boy repeated, afraid he might accidentally invite the witcher’s barely-suspended wrath upon him. “The… The song’s composer…!”

Geralt pursed his lips, a distant memory flitting by. _“And my name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, at your—”_ His eyes flickered back to the performer boy. “He’s here?”

The boy swallowed his nerves and slowly nodded. “We begged him to teach us the song. He only gave us the sheet music, didn’t even say why he wouldn’t show us himself.”

It felt like Geralt’s chest had hollowed out. _Jaskier wouldn’t sing?_

Cirilla detected his peaking agony and stepped in. “I can tell you know who this is. We’d like to see your professor, if we can. Please… it’s urgent.”

Something resonated in their eyes. Something… broken. They consulted each other with silent glances, leaving Geralt and Cirilla to fear the worst, then finally turned in near unison to indicate a lonesome tower on the far side of the academy’s grounds. “They gave him the very topmost studio,” explained another student. “But… no one’s been up there in months…”

Geralt took off. Cirilla cursed between her teeth, then offered the boys a grateful bow. “Thank you,” she replied, then she too was sweeping across the courtyard and into the academy’s great, decorated halls.

Their hearts raced as they flew through the academy. Cirilla, of course, had never met this “Jaskier,” but she could tell how much he apparently meant to Geralt. That alone made her wonder about the kind of man he was, that a simple bard could hold his own alongside a witcher, but more than that she knew if their search uncovered the worst that it would take a toll she wasn’t sure Geralt could pay. She prayed to whatever gods would listen it wouldn’t come to that, but as they at last began their long ascent up the indicated tower the chances of that grew ever slimmer - doubly so when, about halfway up the tower, the spiralling steps brought into view a robed figure, standing squarely in the middle of the stairs.

To be honest, Cirilla was surprised Geralt had stopped at all rather than barrel clear through the elderly man. He stood in ubiquitous calm, his hands folded low before him. Moonlight spilled through the tower’s equidistant windows, touching the wrinkled contours of his face and shimmering silks of his attire. Despite the sheer difference between them in both bulk and stature, the man managed to maintain a commanding presence, gazing serenely down upon Geralt. His voice, gentle yet firm, proved the same, unaffected by intimidation or doubt. “I’ve been expecting you, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt’s hands clenched into tight fists. “Then why are you in my way?” he snarled, debating the merits of chucking the man out the nearest window.

The man offered a kindly smile, a deep sorrow glistening in his sullen eyes. “Because gardens are best cultivated not with cleaving sickles but with pruning shears.”

At that, Geralt hesitated. Cirilla touched his arm, then directed his attention to the nearest window, a pit already forming in his stomach. “Look.”

As they climbed the stairs, the details of the tower had faded into a blur. Even still, they’d managed to vaguely catch the increasing presence of flora around them: small, curling vines that picked their way along the tower’s ancient stonework. They’d assumed it to be the simple, expected result of the building’s age, that over time the outside world had begun to work its way in. Now that this man brought the world to a stop, they could look and recognize that, in actuality, the opposite was true. The closer they looked, the more they realized all of the vines disappeared further up the stairs, their ends in most cases only barely touching the edges of the windows much less breaching into the beyond. Neither of them knew what exactly it meant - only that it almost certainly related to the peculiar petals stowed away in Geralt’s pockets and, by extension, their missing bard.

“Novelists… Painters… Performers…” Geralt and Cirilla turned from the window to see the man had turned and began walking up the stairs - they eagerly followed, continuing their ascent at a significantly reduced pace. “We all have something of an attraction to the more romantic themes of our world.”

“You know what’s wrong with him?” Geralt pressed, eager for any indication Jaskier was okay, no matter how slight.

The man ignored his question, instead continuing on with his slow, methodical lecturing. “One of the faculty’s favorite stories is so old, we thought it legend. We tell it on occasion to warn our students of the dangers of building up a singular love which may ultimately not be accepted or returned.”

_“Here. For you!”_

Geralt winced, the past stabbing through his heart. “Let me guess,” he croaked, his throat so dry his words barely made it out of his mouth. “Something to do with a rose?”

He nodded. “Long ago, a human charmed a young fae maiden. She fell head over heels, so much so that she began to neglect her own well-being. She poured all of her energy into her love for him, only to find out he’d been using her to practice his wiles, that he’d successfully woo a particular human he’d set his eyes on. Rather than lash out on the spot, she resolved to strike a deal, and offered the boy a flower.”

“A rose,” Cirilla whispered.

Their climbing slowed. The stairs had come to an end, resulting in a small platform outside a single door. Though it remained shut tight, a spread of thick vines filled the space between it and the floor, snaking out from there to climb up the walls and around the windows and down the tower. The man rummaged around in his pocket, and eventually extracted a long, thin skeleton key.

“If the object of the boy’s desires accepted his proposition,” he continued, “the rose would bless their love, accentuating their passions and strengthening their commitment to each other. If not…”

The key slid easily into place. With an efforted twist, something sounded as if to snap, and the lock clicked out of its lodging. The man gave the door a single, focused shove, just enough to pop the door out from its threshold. Without even staring past, he paused, sighed, then stepped aside and gestured towards it, head bowed in respect. “It’s up to you what happens from here, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt’s eyes widened upon the man, then darted to the door. For a fleeting moment, he stood, the possibilities daunting him. If he turned back now, he could pretend Jaskier simply wallowed in heartbreak. The thought lingered only a moment before his footsteps began carrying him to the door: to leave now, _knowing_ Jaskier wasn’t well, and that it was likely his fault… That simply wouldn’t sit with the witcher. He had to see for himself, to own the consequences of his actions… and, if the gods willed it possible, _fix_ it.

His hand found the side of the door.

He pushed it aside, its swing grating against writhing vines.

“Jaskier?!”

Geralt froze. He’d only made it a few footsteps into the room by the time his eyes recognized what they were seeing. Thorned tendrils blanketed the room so thoroughly they looked like part of the walls. Beneath them, he could barely perceive furniture, instruments, a writing desk. A single window flooded the room with brilliant, crisp moonlight, highlighting every contour and accentuating every shadow.

And there, seated beneath the window, his legs stretched before him and his head rolled to one side, sat Jaskier.

At least, that’s what the lute wrapped in the figure’s vine-sculpted arms suggested.

“I’m too late.”

* * *

Sunlight crept through the open window. The shadows of the night faded, allowing early morning color to steadily saturate into day. Geralt watched it all, observing the excruciating slowness with the kind of detached still that could only come from a life as drawn out and ragged as his.

Cirilla and the academy’s headmaster had left long ago, granting him whatever space and time he needed. Cirilla would be in good hands, he’d assured Geralt, given her own room nearby to rest and a plate of food come morning. No one else knew they were there, so they were safe. They were welcome as long as he needed.

Maybe that’d be longer than he’d thought. Perhaps it was better this way. Motionless, he couldn’t disturb anything, trample anything. The world could continue on without his meddling, and it’d probably sort itself out just fine. “The world doesn’t need me poisoning one life just so I can run around butchering others,” he muttered. “It’s better off with me leaving it the hell alone.”

“Right, because that’s worked out _so_ well for you in the past.”

Geralt’s eyes snapped to a corner of the room.

Ruffled hair. Hazel eyes. Cocky smirk.

His lips fell ajar, his heart skipping a beat. “Renfri?”

She nodded her head to the figure beside him, eyeing it down the length of her nose. “What’s that?”

Geralt only narrowed his eyes at her, lips thinning into a tight line. He knew better than to engage her - hadn’t worked out well in her life, and never fared him much better when he hallucinated her in her death.

“Aw, you don’t mean that,” she snickered, stepping around the writing desk to stalk towards him. “I rather enjoyed myself that night. Didn’t you?”

He turned away from her, and in doing so came face-to-face with a visage crafted wholly from woven vines sprinkled with cruel thorns. His chest choked as he stared at the two vacant rounds where cornflower blue should have been staring back at him. He grit his teeth, gnawing through his failures. _I should bury him. It’s the least I owe him._

“So do it then.”

His eyes twitched upwards. Renfri had seated herself upon the sole bed in the room, one leg crossed over the other and arms folded atop that. _Goading him._

“You won’t do it,” she chuckled. “You won’t touch him… because you know the story.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Geralt couldn’t stop from snapping. “Witchers aren’t trained to kill roses.”

“No,” Renfri conceded, “but you weren’t _always_ a witcher, were you? Used to be quite the knightly little brat, didn’t you? Bet you read every grand tale and legend and mystery you could get your grubby little hands on.”

Geralt shifted uncomfortably, then defiantly turned his eyes away from her, choosing to focus upon Jaskier. “What’s it matter?”

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Because you can save him, Geralt. You’re just afraid.”

“Afraid?!” Geralt forced an incredulous laugh to drown out his screaming anxieties. “I’m a witcher. What could I possibly be afraid of?”

“That it won’t work,” she sighed. Her hand slipped from his shoulder. “Or… that it will.”

Geralt whirled and threw out his hand. A single blast burst upon a nearby bookshelf, splintering its shelves and dumping its contents upon the floor

Renfri was nowhere to be found.

He sighed, drawing up his knees and sinking both hands into his hair. “Damn it all!” he cursed aloud, hoping it’d relieve some of the agony wracking his brain. He held himself for a moment, suspended on the edge of a chance.

_Was_ he afraid?

_That’s ridiculous._

His head shifted, casting his wary eyes over his shoulder to the twisted remains of his friend.

_It wouldn’t work anyway._

His witcher heart raced in his chest.

Geralt shifted onto his shins and turned his body to face Jaskier’s. One hand upon the sill was all he needed to support his weight as he drew close, brow furrowed as if in accusation.

_It won’t work._

_I’ll prove it._

His eyes slipped shut. He took the plunge.

Thorns pricked his lips. He could taste the copper of his own blood seep into his mouth, could feel it run along the vines. The touch was rough, coarse… electrifying. He felt absolutely _crazy_ , but what else could he do? He had to at least try, he _had_ to. And, hell, how he _wished_ it would work… His eyes clenched tight, trying and failing to hold back the sting of salt-laden tears. He pressed harder against the vines, as if that would change anything.

_Nothing’s happening._

He hated himself for it. How _stupid_ was he, to think he could just… _kiss_ Jaskier back to life?! _You had your chance_ , his melancholy brooded. _You pissed it away running from destiny._

The sheer expanse of his rage, his guilt, his regret felt like fire spreading across his body, lighting his every nerve. The sun burned his face, and the cool morning breeze pierced his heart. The rustling of leaves disturbed his otherwise silent mourning, and he hated them all the more for it.

_Leaves? This high up?_

Movement.

A threat?

His hand tightened upon the sill. Still, his eyes remained shut tight, refusing to discover his failures and be forced to accept them.

But something was pushing him, separating his lips from the blood-softened vines. Something… soft. Gentle. Like satin.

“Geralt… ?”

He opened his eyes.

Jaskier was thin, his face drained in malnourishment and darkened with pained weariness. Nonetheless, his eyes shone more splendidly than any cloudless sky, and his crimson-stained lips curled into a feeble, bewildered smile. “Geralt,” he hoarsely repeated. “You… came back for me… ?”

Geralt’s lips trembled. It worked? He searched Jaskier’s face, wondering if this might be another hallucination. To verify for himself, he lifted his free hand and cupped it along Jaskier’s sunken cheek, letting his fingertips delicately caress the fall of his pale skin against prominent bone. “Jaskier,” he murmured in disbelief. “I…”

He hesitated. He’d never been good with words. How could he possibly come up with all the ones he needed now? There were not enough in this whole damned building to adequately convey everything he felt: the joy, the relief, the…

He fixed Jaskier with a scowl.

Jaskier frowned. Had he… read the situation wrong… ?

“You never performed that song for me.”

Jaskier’s heart throbbed, in no small part because it’d gone so long without doing so at all. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific,” he cheekily replied. Like hell he’d just give in: _this_ time, he’d make Geralt earn it, prove for himself what the curse had already proven.

Even left unspoken, Geralt could read it in Jaskier’s eyes. He grew hesitant… but, after having lost Jaskier and just got him back, what else did he have to lose? He allowed Jaskier to see that rare smile, given for the first time for him and him alone, and immediately saw the effect in the sudden brightening of his every feature.

“The one about me.”

_Every song’s about you_ , Jaskier mused to himself. Nonetheless, he accepted the answer, seeing the knowing gleam in Geralt’s golden eyes. He adjusted his lute into position between them, placed his fingers, and gave the instrument a few testing strums. It’d been so long since last he played that he had to adjust the strings’ tuning and stretch his atrophied hands. He tested his voice alongside it, and though it too took some work to restabilize itself he soon felt the confidence of his expertise resurface. With his life’s muse leaning over him, letting him bask in that simple, secret smile, he felt his music swell deep down in his very soul, and at last his lips parted and he sang with renewed, rich splendor the song which he knew he would never sing for anyone else.

_There used to be a greying tower alone on the sea_   
_You became the light on the dark side of me_   
_Love remained a drug that's the high and not the pill_   
_But did you know that when it snows_   
_My eyes become large and the light that you shine can be seen?_

[ __ ](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/678393959818592289/758536332631998504/Vine_Jaskier.jpg)


End file.
